COSME  S  THIN,  DARK  HAND  SHOT  ACROSS  THE  TABLE  AND 
GRIPPED  THE  FELLOW'S  WRIST  (page  102) 


HIDDEN  CREEK 


BY 

KATHARINE  NEWLIN  BURT 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  BRANDING  IRON  "  AND  "  THE  RED  LADY ' 


With  Illustrations  by 
GEORGE  GIGUERE 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

fitocrsibc  prcs.s  <€ambri&jje 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,    1920,    BY  THE   RIDGWAY   COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,    1920,    BY    KATHARINE    NKWLIN   BURT 

ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


TO 

MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT 
WHO  BLAZED  THE  TRAIL 


2134578 


CONTENTS 

PART  ONE:  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

I.  SHEILA'S  LEGACY  3 
II.  SYLVESTER  HUDSON  COMES  FOR  HIS  PICTURE         5 

III.  THE  FINEST  CITY  IN  THE  WORLD  14 

IV.  MOONSHINE  24 
V.  INTERCESSION  37 

VI.  THE  BAWLINQ-OUT  50 

VII.  DISH- WASHING  60 

VIII.  ARTISTS  72 

IX.  A  SINGEING  OF  WINGS  82 

X.  THE  BEACON  LIGHT  98 

XI.  IN  THE  PUBLIC  EYE  110 

XII.  HUDSON'S  QUEEN  123 

XIII.  SYLVESTER  CELEBRATES  137 

XIV.  THE  LIGHT  OF  DAWN  146 
XV.  FLAMES  152 

PART  TWO:  THE  STARS 

I.  THE  HILL  161 

II.  ADVENTURE  172 

III.  JOURNEY'S  END  187 

IV.  BEASTS  196 
V.  NEIGHBOR  NEIGHBOR  201 


vi  CONTENTS 

VI.  A  HISTORY  AND  A  LETTER  213 

VII.  SANCTUARY  221 

VIII.  DESERTION  234 

IX.  WORK  AND  A  SONG  247 

X.  WINTER  251 

XI.  THE  PACK  262 

XII.  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD  AGAIN  274 

XIII.  LONELINESS  284 

XIV.  SHEILA  AND  THE  STARS  295 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

COSME'S   THIN,   DARK  HAND   SHOT   ACROSS   THE  TABLE 

AND  GRIPPED  THE  FELLOW'S  WRIST  Frontispiece 

So  SHEILA  ARUNDEL  LEFT  THE  GARRET  WHERE  THE 
STARS  PRESSED  CLOSE,  AND  WENT  WITH  SYLVESTER 
HUDSON  OUT  INTO  THE  WORLD  14 

THE  ONLY  CAR  IN  SIGHT  WAS  HUDSON'S  OWN,  WHICH 
WRIGGLED  AND  SLIPPED  ITS  WAY  COURAGEOUSLY 

ALONG  22 

THEN  "PAP'S"  VOICE  CRACKED  OUT  AT  HIM  52 

IT  WAS  NOT  EASY,  EVEN  WITH  BABE'S  GOOD-HUMORED 
HELP,  TO  GO  DOWN  AND  SUBMIT  TO  MRS.  HUDSON'S 
HECTORING  62 

IT   WAS   AN   INDULGENT    AND    FORGIVING    SMILE,    BUT, 

MEETING  DICKIE'S  LOOK,  IT  WENT  OUT  96 

A  MAN  KNEELING  OVER  THE  WATER  LIFTED  A  WHITE 

AND  STARTLED  FACE  176 

FOR    AN    INSTANT   HIS   LOOK  WENT    BEYOND    HER   AND 

REMEMBERED   TROUBLING  THINGS  206 


HIDDEN  CREEK 

•       • 

PART  ONE 
THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 


HIDDEN  CREEK 

•  • 

• 

CHAPTER  I 

SHEILA'S  LEGACY 

JUST  before  his  death,  Marcus  Arundel,  artist  and 
father  of  Sheila,  bore  witness  to  his  faith  in  God  and 
man.  He  had  been  lying  apparently  unconscious,  his 
slow,  difficult  breath  drawn  at  longer  and  longer  in 
tervals.  Sheila  was  huddled  on  the  floor  beside  his  bed, 
her  hand  pressing  his  urgently  in  the  pitiful  attempt, 
common  to  human  love,  to  hold  back  the  resolute  soul 
from  the  next  step  in  its  adventure.  The  nurse,  who 
came  in  by  the  day,  had  left  a  paper  of  instructions  on 
the  table.  Here  a  candle  burned  under  a  yellow  shade, 
throwing  a  circle  of  warm,  unsteady  light  on  the  head 
of  the  girl,  on  the  twTo  hands,  on  the  rumpled  coverlet, 
on  the  dying  face.  This  circle  of  light  seemed  to  collect 
these  things,  to  choose  them,  as  though  for  the  expres 
sion  of  some  meaning.  It  felt  for  them  as  an  artist  feels 
for  his  composition  and  gave  to  them  a  symbolic 
value.  The  two  hands  were  in  the  center  of  the  glow 
—  the  long,  pale,  slack  one,  the  small,  desperate, 
clinging  one.  The  conscious  and  the  unconscious,  life 
and  death,  humanity  and  God  —  all  that  is  mysteri 
ous  and  tragic  seemed  to  find  expression  there  in  the 
two  hands. 


4  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

So  they  had  been  for  six  hours,  and  it  would  soon 
be  morning.  The  large,  bare  room,  however,  was  still 
possessed  by  night,  and  the  city  outside  was  at  its 
lowest  ebb  of  life,  almost  soundless.  Against  the  sky 
light  the  winter  stars  seemed  to  be  pressing;  the  sky 
was  laid  across  the  panes  of  glass  like  a  purple  cloth  in 
which  sparks  burned. 

Suddenly  and  with  strength  Arundel  sat  up.  Sheila 
rose  with  him,  drawing  up  his  hand  in  hers  to  her  heart. 

"Keep  looking  at  the  stars,  Sheila,"  he  said  with 
thrilling  emphasis,  and  widened  his  eyes  at  the  visible 
host  of  them.  Then  he  looked  down  at  her;  his  eyes 
shone  as  though  they  had  caught  a  reflection  from  the 
myriad  lights.  "It  is  a  good  old  world,"  he  said  heart 
ily  in  a  warm  and  human  voice,  and  he  smiled  his 
smile  of  everyday  good-fellowship. 

Sheila  thanked  God  for  his  return,  and  on  the  very 
instant  he  was  gone.  He  dropped  back,  and  there  were 
no  more  difficult  breaths. 

Sheila,  alone  there  in  the  garret  studio  above  the 
city,  cried  to  her  father  and  shook  him,  till,  in  very 
terror  of  her  own  frenzy  in  the  face  of  his  stillness,  she 
grew  calm  and  laid  herself  down  beside  him,  put  his 
dead  arm  around  her,  nestled  her  head  against  his 
shoulder.  She  was  seventeen  years  old,  left  alone  and 
penniless  in  the  old  world  that  he  had  just  pronounced 
so  good.  She  lay  there  staring  at  the  stars  till  they 
faded,  and  the  cold,  clear  eye  of  day  looked  down  into 
the  room. 


CHAPTER  II 

SYLVESTER  HUDSON  COMES  FOR  HIS  PICTURE 

BACK  of  his  sallow,  lantern-jawed  face,  Sylvester 
Hudson  hid  successfully,  though  without  intention, 
all  that  was  in  him  whether  of  good  or  ill.  Certainly  he 
did  not  look  his  history.  He  was  stoop-shouldered, 
pensive-eyed,  with  long  hands  on  which  he  was  al 
ways  turning  and  twisting  a  big  emerald.  He  dressed 
quietly,  almost  correctly,  but  there  was  always  some 
thing  a  little  wrong  in  the  color  or  pattern  of  his  tie, 
and  he  was  too  fond  of  brown  and  green  mixtures 
which  did  not  become  his  sallowness.  He  smiled  very 
rarely,  and  when  he  did  smile,  his  long  upper  lip 
unfastened  itself  with  an  effort  and  showed  a  hori 
zontal  wrinkle  halfway  between  the  pointed  end  of 
his  nose  and  the  irregular,  nicked  row  of  his  teeth. 

Altogether,  he  was  a  gentle,  bilious-looking  sort  of 
man,  who  might  have  been  anything  from  a  country 
gentleman  to  a  moderately  prosperous  clerk.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  was  the  owner  of  a  dozen  small,  not 
too  respectable,  hotels  through  the  West,  and  had  an 
income  of  nearly  half  a  million  dollars.  He  lived  in 
Millings,  a  town  in  a  certain  Far- Western  State, 
where  flourished  the  most  pretentious  and  respectable 
of  his  hotels.  It  had  a  famous  bar,  to  which  rode  the 
sheep-herders,  the  cowboys,  the  ranchers,  the  dry- 


6  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

farmers  of  the  surrounding  country  —  yes,  and  some 
times,  thirstiest  of  all,  the  workmen  from  more  dis 
tant  oil-fields,  a  dangerous  crew.  Millings  at  that  time 
had  not  yielded  to  the  generally  increasing  "dryness" 
of  the  West.  It  was  "wet,"  notwithstanding  its  chok 
ing  alkali  dust;  and  the  deep  pool  of  its  wetness  lay  in 
Hudson's  bar,  The  Aura.  It  was  named  for  a  woman 
who  had  become  his  wife. 

When  Hudson  came  to  New  York  he  looked  up  his 
Eastern  patrons,  and  it  was  one  of  these  who,  know 
ing  Arundel's  need,  encouraged  the  hotel-keeper  in 
his  desire  to  secure  a  "jim-dandy  picture"  for  the 
lobby  of  The  Aura  and  took  him  for  the  purpose  to 
Marcus's  studio.  On  that  morning,  hardly  a  fortnight 
before  the  artist's  death,  Sheila  was  not  at  home. 

Marcus,  in  spite  of  himself,  was  managed  into  a 
sale.  It  was  of  an  enormous  canvas,  covered  weakly 
enough  by  a  thin  reproduction  of  a  range  of  the 
Rockies  and  a  sagebrush  flat.  Mr.  Hudson  in  his  hol 
low  voice  pronounced  it  "classy."  "Say,"  he  said, 
"put  a  little  life  into  the  foreground  and  that  would 
please  me.  It's  what  I'm  seekin'.  Put  in  an  automo 
bile  meetin'  one  of  these  old-time  prairie  schooners  — 
the  old  West  sayin'  howdy  to  the  noo.  That  will  tickle 
the  trade."  Mark,  who  was  feeling  weak  and  ill,  con 
sented  wearily.  He  sketched  in  the  proposed  amend 
ment  and  Hudson  approved  with  one  of  his  wrinkled 
smiles.  He  offered  a  small  price,  at  which  Arundel 
leapt  like  a  famished  hound. 


HUDSON  COMES  FOR  HIS  PICTURE      7 

When  his  visitors  had  gone,  the  painter  went  fever 
ishly  to  work.  The  day  before  his  death,  Sheila,  under 
his  whispered  directions,  put  the  last  touches  to  the 
body  of  the  "automobile." 

"It's  ghastly,"  sighed  the  sick  man,  "but  it  will  do 
—  for  Millings."  He  turned  his  back  sadly  enough  to 
the  canvas,  which  stood  for  him  like  a  monument  to 
fallen  hope.  Sheila  praised  it  with  a  faltering  voice, 
but  he  did  not  turn  nor  speak.  So  she  carried  the  huge 
picture  out  of  his  sight. 

The  next  day,  at  about  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing,  Hudson  called.  He  came  with  stiff,  angular  mo 
tions  of  his  long,  thin  legs,  up  the  four  steep,  shabby 
flights  and  stopped  at  the  top  to  get  his  breath. 

"The  picture  ain't  worth  the  climb,"  he  thought; 
and  then,  struck  by  the  peculiar  stillness  of  the  garret 
floor,  he  frowned.  "Damned  if  the  feller  ain't  out!" 
He  took  a  stride  forward  and  knocked  at  Arundel's 
door.  There  was  no  answer.  He  turned  the  knob  and 
stepped  into  the  studio. 

A  screen  stood  between  him  and  one  half  of  the 
room.  The  other  half  was  empty.  The  place  was  very 
cold  and  still.  It  was  deplorably  bare  and  shabby  in 
the  wintry  morning  light.  Some  one  had  eaten  a 
meager  breakfast  from  a  tray  on  the  little  table  near 
the  stove.  Hudson's  canvas  stood  against  the  wall 
facing  him,  and  its  presence  gave  him  a  feeling  of  own 
ership,  of  a  right  to  be  there.  He  put  his  long,  stiff 
hands  into  his  pockets  and  strolled  forward.  He  came 


8 

round  the  corner  of  the  screen  and  found  himself  look 
ing  at  the  dead  body  of  his  host. 

The  nurse,  that  morning,  had  come  and  gone.  With 
Sheila's  help  she  had  prepared  Arundel  for  his  burial. 
He  lay  in  all  the  formal  detachment  of  death,  his 
eyelids  drawn  decently  down  over  his  eyes,  his  lips 
put  carefully  together,  his  hands,  below  their  white 
cuffs  and  black  sleeves,  laid  carefully  upon  the  clean 
smooth  sheet. 

Hudson  drew  in  a  hissing  breath,  and  at  the  sound 
Sheila,  crumpled  up  in  exhausted  slumber  on  the  floor 
beside  the  bed,  aw^oke  and  lifted  her  face. 

It  was  a  heart-shaped  face,  a  thin,  white  heart,  the 
peak  of  her  hair  cutting  into  the  center  of  her  fore 
head.  The  mouth  struck  a  note  of  life  with  its  dull, 
soft  red.  There  was  not  lacking  in  this  young  face  the 
slight  exaggerations  necessary  to  romantic  beauty. 
Sheila  had  a  strange,  arresting  sort  of  jaw,  a  trifle 
over-accentuated  and  out  of  drawing.  Her  eyes  were 
long,  flattened,  narrow,  the  color  of  bubbles  filled 
with  smoke,  of  a  surface  brilliance  and  an  inner  misti 
ness  —  indescribable  eyes,  clear,  very  melting,  wistful 
and  beautiful  under  sooty  lashes  and  slender,  arched 
black  brows. 

Sheila  lifted  this  strange,  romantic  face  on  its  long, 
romantic  throat  and  looked  at  Hudson.  Then  she  got 
to  her  feet.  She  was  soft  and  silken,  smooth  and  ten 
der,  gleaming  white  of  skin.  She  had  put  on  an  old 
black  dress,  just  a  scrap  of  a  flimsy,  little  worn-out 


HUDSON  COMES  FOR  HIS  PICTURE      9 

gown.  A  certain  slim,  crushable  quality  of  her  body 
was  accentuated  by  this  flimsiness  of  covering.  She 
looked  as  though  she  could  be  drawn  through  a  ring 

—  as  though,  between  your  hands,  you  could  fold  her 
to  nothing.  A  thin  little  kitten  of  silky  fur  and  small 
bones  might  have  the  same  feel  as  Sheila. 

She  stood  up  now  and  looked  tragically  and  help 
lessly  at  Hudson  and  tried  to  speak. 

He  backed  away  from  the  bed,  beckoned  to  her, 
and  met  her  in  the  other  half  of  the  room  so  that  the 
leather  screen  stood  between  them  and  the  dead  man. 
They  spoke  in  hushed  voices. 

"I  had  no  notion,  Miss  Arundel,  that  —  that  —  of 

—  this,"  Hudson  began  in  a  dry,  jerky  whisper.  "Be 
lieve  me,  I  would  n't  'a'  thought  of  intrudin'.  I  or 
dered  the  picture  there  from  your  father  a  fortnight 
ago,  and  this  was  the  day  I  was  to  come  and  give  it 
a  last  looking-over  before  I  came  through  with  the 
cash,  see?  I  had  n't  heard  he  was  sick  even,  much 
less"  —  he  cleared  his  throat  —  "gone  beyond,"  he 
ended,  quoting  from  the  "Millings  Gazette"  obituary 
column.  "You  get  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sheila,  in  her  voice  that  in  some  mys 
terious  way  was  another  expression  of  the  clear  mis 
tiness  of  her  eyes  and  the  suppleness  of  her  body. 
"You  are  Mr.  Hudson."  She  twisted  her  hands 
together  behind  her  back.  She  was  shivering  with 
cold  and  nervousness.  "It's  done,  you  see.  Father 
finished  it." 


10  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

Hudson  gave  the  canvas  an  absent  glance  and  mo 
tioned  Sheila  to  a  chair  with  a  stiff  gesture  of  his  arm. 

"You  set  down,"  he  said. 

She  obeyed,  and  he  walked  to  and  fro  before  her. 

"Say,  now,"  he  said,  "I'll  take  the  picture  all 
right.  But  I'd  like  to  know,  Miss  Arundel,  if  you'll 
excuse  me,  how  you're  fixed?" 

"Fixed?  "Sheila  faltered. 

"Why,  yes,  ma'am  —  as  to  finances,  I  mean.  You  've 
got  some  funds,  or  some  re-lations  or  some  friends  to 
call  upon  — ?" 

Sheila  drew  up  her  head  a  trifle,  lowered  her  eyes, 
and  began  to  plait  her  thin  skirt  across  her  knee  with 
small,  delicate  fingers.  Hudson  stopped  in  his  walk 
to  watch  this  mechanical  occupation.  She  struggled 
dumbly  with  her  emotion  and  managed  to  answer 
him  at  last. 

"No,  Mr.  Hudson.  Father  is  very  poor.  I  have  n't 
any  relations.  We  have  no  friends  here  nor  anywhere 
near.  We  lived  in  Europe  till  quite  lately — a  fishing  vil 
lage  in  Normandy.  I — I  shall  have  to  get  some  work." 

"Say!"  It  was  an  ejaculation  of  pity,  but  there  was 
a  note  of  triumph  in  it,  too;  perhaps  the  joy  of  the 
gratified  philanthropist. 

"Now,  look-a-here,  little  girl,  the  price  of  that  pic 
ture  will  just  about  cover  your  expenses,  eh?  —  board 
and  —  er  —  funeral?  " 

Sheila  nodded,  her  throat  working,  her  lids  press 
ing  down  tears. 


"Well,  now,  look-a-here.  I  've  got  a  missus  at  home." 

Sheila  looked  up  and  the  tears  fell.  She  brushed 
them  from  her  cheeks.  "A  missus?" 

"Yes'm  —  my  wife.  And  a  couple  of  gels  about 
your  age.  Well,  say,  we've  got  a  job  for  you." 

Sheila  put  her  hand  to  her  head  as  though  she  would 
stop  a  whirling  sensation  there. 

"You  mean  you  have  some  work  for  me  in  your 
home?" 

"You've  got  it  first  time.  Yes,  ma'am.  Sure  thing. 
At  Millings,  finest  city  in  the  world.  After  you're 
through  here,  you  pack  up  your  duds  and  you  come 
West  with  me.  Make  a  fresh  start,  eh?  Why,  it'll 
make  me  plumb  cheerful  to  have  a  gel  with  me  on  that 
journey  . . .  seem  like  I  'd  Girlie  or  Babe  along.  They 
just  cried  to  come,  but,  say,  Noo  York's  no  place  for 
the  young." 

"But,  Mr.  Hudson,  my  ticket?  I'm  sure  I  won't 
have  the  money  —  ?" 

"Advance  it  to  you  on  your  pay,  Miss  Arundel." 

"But  what  is  the  work?"  Sheila  still  held  her  hand 
against  her  forehead. 

Hudson  laughed  his  short,  cracked  cackle.  "Jest 
old-fashioned  house-work,  dish-washing  and  such. 
'Help*  can't  be  had  in  Millings,  and  Girlie  and  Babe 
kick  like  steers  when  MoraAna  leads  'em  to  the  dish- 
pan.  Not  that  you  'd  have  to  do  it  all,  you  know,  just 
lend  a  hand  to  Momma.  Maybe  you're  too  fine  for 
that?" 


12  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

"Oh,  no.  I  have  done  all  the  work  here.  I 'd  be  glad. 
Only- 

He  came  closer  to  her  and  held  up  a  long,  threat 
ening  forefinger.  It  was  a  playful  gesture,  but  Sheila 
had  a  distinct  little  tremor  of  fear.  She  looked  up  into 
his  small,  brown,  pensive  eyes,  and  her  own  were  held 
as  though  their  look  had  been  fastened  to  his  with 
rivets. 

"Now,  look-a-here,  Miss  Arundel,  don't  you  say 
'only'  to  me.  Nor  'but.'  Nor  'if.'  Nary  one  of  those 
words,  if  you  please.  Say,  I've  got  daughters  of  my 
own  and  I  can  manage  gels.  I  know  how.  Do  you  know 
my  nickname?  Well  —  say  —  it's  'Pap.'  Pap  Hud 
son.  I  'm  the  adopting  kind.  Sort  of  paternal,  I  guess. 
Kids  and  dogs  follow  me  in  the  streets.  You  want  a 
recommend?  Just  call  up  Mr.  Hazeldean  on  the  tele 
phone.  He's  the  man  that  fetched  me  here  to  buy 
that  picture  off  Poppa." 

"Oh,"  said  Sheila,  daughter  of  Mark  who  looked 
at  stars,  "of  course  I  should  n't  think  of  asking  for  a 
recommendation.  You've  been  only  too  kind  — 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder  in  its  thin  covering 
and  patted  it,  wondering  at  the  silken,  cool  feeling 
against  his  palm. 

"Kind,  Miss  Arundel?  Pshaw!  My  middle  name's 
'Kind'  and  that's  the  truth.  Why,  how  does  the  song 
go  —  "T  is  love,  't  is  love  that  makes  the  world  go 
round '  —  love  's  just  another  word  for  kindness,  ain't 
it?  And  it's  not  such  a  bad  old  world  either,  eh?" 


HUDSON  COMES  FOR  HIS  PICTURE    13 

Without  knowing  it,  with  the  sort  of  good  luck  that 
often  attends  the  enterprises  of  such  men,  Hudson 
had  used  a  spell.  He  had  quoted,  almost  literally,  her 
father's  last  words  and  she  felt  that  it  was  a  message 
from  the  other  side  of  death. 

She  twisted  about  in  her  chair,  took  his  hand  from 
her  shoulder,  and  drew  it,  stiff  and  sallow,  to  her 
young  lips. 

"Oh,"  she  sobbed,  "you're  kind!  It  is  a  good 
world  if  there  are  such  men  as  you!" 

When  Sylvester  Hudson  went  down  the  stairs  a 
minute  or  two  after  Sheila's  impetuous  outbreak,  his 
sallow  face  was  deeply  flushed.  He  stopped  to  tell  the 
Irishwoman  who  rented  the  garret  floor  to  the  Arun- 
dels,  that  Sheila's  future  was  in  his  care.  During  this 
colloquy,  pure  business  on  his  side  and  mixed  business 
and  sentiment  on  Mrs.  Halligan's,  Sylvester  did  not 
once  look  the  landlady  in  the  eye.  His  own  eyes 
skipped  hers,  now  across,  now  under,  now  over.  There 
are  some  philanthropists  who  are  overcome  with  such 
bashfulness  in  the  face  of  their  own  good  deeds.  But, 
sitting  back  alone  in  his  taxicab  on  his  way  to  the 
station  to  buy  Sheila's  ticket  to  Millings,  Sylvester 
turned  his  emerald  rapidly  about  on  his  finger  and 
whistled  to  himself.  And  cryptically  he  expressed  his 
glow  of  gratified  fatherliness. 

"As  smooth  as  silk,"  said  Sylvester  aloud. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  FINEST  CITY  IN  THE  WORLD 

So  Sheila  Arundel  left  the  garret  where  the  stars 
pressed  close,  and  went  with  Sylvester  Hudson  out 
into  the  world.  It  was,  that  morning,  a  world  of  saw 
ing  wind,  of  flying  papers  and  dust-dervishes,  a  world, 
to  meet  which  people  bent  their  shrinking  faces  and 
drew  their  bodies  together  as  against  the  lashing  of  a 
whip.  Sheila  thought  she  had  never  seen  New  York 
so  drab  and  soulless;  it  hurt  her  to  leave  it  under  so 
desolate  an  aspect. 

"Cheery  little  old  town,  is  n't  it?"  said  Sylvester. 
"Gee!  Millings  is  God's  country  all  right." 

On  the  journey  he  put  Sheila  into  a  compartment, 
supplied  her  with  magazines  and  left  her  for  the  most 
part  to  herself  —  for  which  isolation  she  was  grate 
ful.  With  her  compartment  door  ajar,  she  could  see 
him  in  his  section,  when  he  was  not  in  the  smoking- 
car,  or  rather  she  could  see  his  lean  legs,  his  long,  dark 
hands,  and  the  top  of  his  sleek  head.  The  rest  was  an 
outspread  newspaper.  Occasionally  he  would  come 
into  the  compartment  to  read  aloud  some  bit  of  infor 
mation  which  he  thought  might  interest  her.  Once  it 
was  the  prowress  of  a  record-breaking  hen;  again  it 
was  a  joke  about  a  mother-in-law;  another  time  it  was 
the  Hilliard  murder  case,  a  scandal  of  New  York 


THE  FINEST  CITY  IN  THE  WORLD     15 

high-life,  the  psychology  of  which  intrigued  Syl 
vester. 

"Is  n't  it  queer,  though,  Miss  Arundel,  that  such 
things  happen  in  the  slums  and  they  happen  in  the 
smart  set,  but  they  don't  happen  near  so  often  with 
just  plain  folks  like  you  and  me !  Is  n't  this,  now, 
a  real  Tenderloin  Tale  —  South  American  wife  and 
American  husband  and  all  their  love  affairs,  and  then 
one  day  her  up  and  shooting  him!  Money,"  quoth 
Sylvester,  "sure  makes  love  popular.  Now  for  that 
little  ro-mance,  poor  folks  would  hardly  stop  a  day's 
work,  but  just  because  the  Billiards  here  have 
po-sition  and  spon-dulix,  why,  they  '11  run  a  couple  of 
columns  about  'em  for  a  week.  What's  your  opinion 
on  the  subject,  Miss  Arundel?" 

He  was  continually  asking  this,  and  poor  Sheila, 
strange,  bewildered,  oppressed  by  his  intrusion  into 
her  uprooted  life,  would  grope  wildly  through  her 
odds  and  ends  of  thought  and  find  that  on  most  of  the 
subjects  that  interested  him,  she  had  no  opinions 
at  all. 

"You  must  think  I'm  dreadfully  stupid,  Mr.  Hud 
son,"  she  faltered  once  after  a  particularly  deplorable 
failure. 

"Oh,  you're  a  kid,  Miss  Sheila,  that's  all  your 
trouble.  And  I  reckon  you're  half  asleep,  eh?  Kind 
of  brought  up  on  pictures  and  country  walks,  in  — 
what's  the  name  of  the  foreign  part?  —  Normandy? 
No  friends  of  your  own  age?  No  beaux?" 


16  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

Sheila  shook  her  head,  smiling.  Her  flexible  smile 
was  as  charming  as  a  child's.  It  dawned  on  the  gravity 
of  her  face  with  an  effect  of  spring  moonlight.  In  it 
there  was  some  of  the  mischief  of  fairyland. 

"What  you  need  is  —  Millings,"  prescribed  Syl 
vester.  "Girlie  and  Babe  will  wake  you  up.  Yes,  and 
the  boys.  You'll  make  a  hit  in  Millings."  He  contem 
plated  her  for  an  instant  with  his  head  on  one  side. 
"We  ain't  got  anything  like  you  in  Millings." 

Sheila,  looking  out  at  the  wide  Nebraskan  prairies 
that  slipped  endlessly  past  her  window  hour  by  hour 
that  day,  felt  that  she  would  not  make  a  hit  at  Mill 
ings.  She  was  afraid  of  Millings.  Her  terror  of  Babe 
and  Girlie  was  profound.  She  had  lived  and  grown 
up,  as  it  were,  under  her  father's  elbow.  Her  adora 
tion  of  him  had  stood  between  her  and  experience. 
She  knew  nothing  of  humanity  except  Marcus  Arun- 
del.  And  he  was  hardly  typical  —  a  shy,  proud,  head- 
in-the-air  sort  of  man,  who  would  have  been  greatly 
loved  if  he  had  not  shrunk  morbidly  from  human  con 
tacts.  Sheila's  Irish  mother  had  wooed  and  won  him 
and  had  made  a  merry  midsummer  madness  in  his 
life,  as  brief  as  a  dream.  Sheila  was  all  that  remained 
of  it.  But,  for  all  her  quietness,  the  shadow  of  his 
broken  heart  upon  her  spirit,  she  was  a  Puck.  She 
could  make  laughter  and  mischief  for  him  and  for  her 
self  —  not  for  any  one  else  yet;  she  was  too  shy.  But 
that  might  come.  Only,  Puck  laughter  is  a  little  un 
earthly,  a  little  delicate.  The  ear  of  Millings  might 


THE  FINEST  CITY  IN  THE  WORLD     17 

not  be  attuned.  . . .  Just  now,  Sheila  felt  that  she 
would  never  laugh  again.  Sylvester's  humor  certainly 
did  not  move  her.  She  almost  choked  trying  to  swal 
low  becomingly  the  mother-in-law  anecdote. 

But  Sylvester's  talk,  his  questions,  even  his  jokes, 
were  not  what  most  oppressed  her.  Sometimes,  look 
ing  up,  she  would  find  him  staring  at  her  over  the  top 
of  his  newspaper  as  though  he  were  speculating  about 
something,  weighing  her,  judging  her  by  some  inner 
measurement.  It  was  rather  like  the  way  her  father 
had  looked  a  model  over  to  see  if  she  would  fit  his 
dream. 

At  such  moments  Sylvester's  small  brown  eyes 
were  the  eyes  of  an  artist,  of  a  visionary.  They 
embarrassed  her  painfully.  What  was  it,  after  all, 
that  he  expected  of  her?  For  an  expectation  of  some 
kind  he  most  certainly  had,  and  it  could  hardly  have 
to  do  with  her  skill  in  washing  dishes. 

She  asked  him  a  few  small  questions  as  they  drew 
near  to  Millings.  The  strangeness  of  the  country  they 
were  now  running  through  excited  her  and  fired  her 
courage  —  these  orange-colored  cliffs,  these  purple 
buttes,  these  strange  twisting  canons  with  their  fierce 
green  streams. 

"Please  tell  me  about  Mrs.  Hudson  and  your 
daughters?"  she  asked. 

This  was  a  few  hours  before  they  were  to  come  to 
Millings.  They  had  changed  trains  at  a  big,  bare, 
glaring  city  several  hours  before  and  were  now  in  a 


18  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

small,  gritty  car  with  imitation-leather  seats.  They 
were  running  through  a  gorge,  and  below  and  ahead 
Sheila  could  see  the  brown  plain  with  its  patches  of 
snow  and,  like  a  large  group  of  red  toy  houses,  the 
town  of  Millings,  far  away  but  astonishingly  distinct 
in  the  clear  air. 

Sylvester,  considering  her  question,  turned  his  em 
erald  slowly. 

"The  girls  are  all  right,  Miss  Sheila.  They  're  look 
ers.  I  guess  I  've  spoiled  'em  some.  They  '11  be  crazy 
over  you  —  sort  of  a  noo  pet  in  the  house,  eh?  I've 
wired  to  'em.  They  must  be  hoppin'  up  and  down  like 
a  popper  full  of  corn." 

"And  Mrs.  Hudson?" 

Sylvester  grinned  —  the  wrinkle  cutting  long  and 
deep  across  his  lip.  "Well,  ma'am,  she  ain't  the  hop- 
pin'  kind." 

A  few  minutes  later  Sheila  discovered  that  em 
phatically  she  was  not  the  hopping  kind.  A  great, 
bony  woman  with  a  wide,  flat,  handsome  face,  she 
came  along  the  station  platform,  kissed  Sylvester 
with  hard  lips  and  stared  at  Sheila  .  .  .  the  stony  stare 
of  her  kind. 

"Babe  ran  the  Ford  down,  Sylly,"  she  said  in  the 
harshest  voice  Sheila  had  ever  heard.  "Where's  the 
girl's  trunk?" 

Sylvester's  sallow  face  reddened.  He  turned  quickly 
to  Sheila. 

"Run  over  to  the  car  yonder,  Miss  Sheila,  and  get 


THE  FINEST  CITY  IN  THE  WORLD    19 

used  to  Babe,  while  I  kind  of  take  the  edge  off 
Momma." 

Sheila  did  not  run.  She  walked  in  a  peculiar  light- 
footed  manner  which  gave  her  the  look  of  a  proud 
deer. 

"Momma"  was  taken  firmly  to  the  baggage-room, 
where,  it  would  seem,  the  edge  was  removed  with  dif 
ficulty,  for  Sheila  waited  in  the  motor  with  Babe  for 
half  an  hour. 

Babe  hopped.  She  hopped  out  of  her  seat  at  the 
wheel  and  shook  Sheila's  hand  and  told  her  to  "  jump 
right  in." 

"Sit  by  me  on  the  way  home,  Sheila."  Babe  had  a 
tremendous  voice.  "And  leave  the  old  folks  to  gossip 
on  the  back  seat.  Gee!  you're  different  from  what  I 
thought  you'd  be.  Ain't  you  small,  though?  You've 
got  no  form.  Say,  Millings  will  do  lots  for  you.  Is  n't 
Pap  a  character,  though?  Were  n't  you  tickled  the 
way  he  took  you  up?  Your  Poppa  was  a  painter, 
was  n't  he?  Can  you  make  a  picture  of  me?  I've  got  a 
steady  that  would  be  just  wild  if  you  could." 

Sheila  sat  with  hands  clenched  in  her  shabby  muff 
and  smiled  her  moonlight  smile.  She  was  giddy  with 
the  intoxicating,  heady  air,  with  the  brilliant  sunset 
light,  with  Babe's  loud  cordiality.  She  wanted  des 
perately  to  like  Babe;  she  wanted  even  more  desper 
ately  to  be  liked.  She  was  in  an  unimaginable  panic, 
now. 

Babe  was  a  splendid  young  animal,  handsome  and 


20  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

round  and  rosy,  her  body  crowded  into  a  bright-blue 
braided,  fur-trimmed  coat,  her  face  crowded  into  a 
tight,  much-ornamented  veil,  her  head  with  heavy 
chestnut  hair,  crowded  into  a  cherry-colored,  velvet 
turban  round  which  seemed  to  be  wrapped  the  tail 
of  some  large  wild  beast.  Her  hands  were  ready  to 
burst  from  yellow  buckskin  gloves;  her  feet,  with 
high,  thick  insteps,  from  their  tight,  thin,  buttoned 
boots,  even  her  legs  shone  pink  and  plump  below  her 
short  skirt,  through  silk  stockings  that  were  threat 
ened  at  the  seams.  And  the  blue  of  her  eyes,  the  red 
of  her  cheeks,  the  white  of  her  teeth,  had  the  look  of 
being  uncontainable,  too  brilliant  and  full  to  stay 
where  they  belonged.  The  whole  creature  flashed  and 
glowed  and  distended  herself.  Her  voice  was  a  riot 
of  uncontrolled  vitality,  and,  as  though  to  use  up 
a  little  of  all  this  superfluous  energy,  she  was  vio 
lently  chewing  gum.  Except  for  an  occasional  slight 
smacking  sound,  it  did  not  materially  interfere  with 
speech. 

"There's  Poppa  now,"  she  said  at  last.  "Say, 
Poppa,  you  two  sit  in  the  back,  will  you?  Sheila  and 
I  are  having  a  fine  time.  But,  Poppa,  you  old  tin-horn, 
what  did  you  mean  by  saying  in  your  wire  that  she 
was  a  husky  girl?  Why,  she's  got  the  build  of  a  sage 
brush  mosquito!  Look-a-here,  Sheila."  Babe  by  a 
miracle  got  her  plump  hand  in  and  out  of  a  pocket 
and  handed  a  telegram  to  her  new  friend.  "Read  that 
and  learn  to  know  Poppa!" 


THE  FINEST  CITY  IN  THE  WORLD     21 

Sylvester  laughed  rather  sheepishly  as  Sheila  read : 

Am  bringing  home  artist's  Al  picture  for  The  Aura  and 
artist's  Al  daughter.  Husky  girl.  Will  help  Momma. 

"Well,"  said  Sylvester  apologetically,  "she's  one 
of  the  wiry  kind,  are  n't  you,  Miss  Sheila?" 

Sheila  was  struggling  with  an  attack  of  hysterical 
mirth.  She  nodded  and  put  her  muff  before  her  mouth 
to  hide  an  uncontrollable  quivering  of  her  lips. 

"Momma"  had  not  spoken.  Her  face  was  all  one 
even  tone  of  red,  her  nostrils  opened  and  shut,  her 
lips  were  tight.  Sylvester,  however,  was  in  a  genial 
humor.  He  leaned  forward  with  his  arms  folded  along 
the  back  of  the  front  seat  and  pointed  out  the  beau 
ties  of  Millings.  He  showed  Sheila  the  Garage,  the 
Post-Office,  and  the  Trading  Company,  and  suddenly 
pressing  her  shoulder  with  his  hand,  he  cracked  out 
sharply: 

"There's  The  Aura,  girl!" 

His  eyes  were  again  those  of  the  artist  and  the 
visionary.  They  glowed. 

Sheila  turned  her  head.  They  were  passing  the 
double  door  of  the  saloon  and  went  slowly  along  the 
front  of  the  hotel. 

It  stood  on  that  corner  where  the  main  business 
street  intersects  with  the  Best  Residence  Street.  Its 
main  entrance  opened  into  the  flattened  corner  of  the 
building  where  the  roof  rose  to  a  fantastic  facade.  For 
the  rest,  the  hotel  was  of  yellowish-brick,  half-sur 
rounded  by  a  wooden  porch  where  at  milder  seasons 


22  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

of  the  year  in  deep  wicker  chairs  men  and  women 
were  always  rocking  with  the  air  of  people  engaged 
in  serious  and  not  unimportant  work.  At  such  friend 
lier  seasons,  too,  by  the  curb  was  always  a  weary- 
looking  Ford  car  from  which  grotesquely  arrayed 
"travelers"  from  near-by  towns  and  cities  were  de 
scending  covered  with  alkali  dust  —  faces,  chiffon 
veils,  spotted  silk  dresses,  high  white  kid  boots,  dan 
gling  purses  and  all,  their  men  dust-powdered  to  a 
wrinkled  sameness  of  aspect.  At  this  time  of  the  year 
the  porch  was  deserted,  and  the  only  car  in  sight  was 
Hudson's  own,  which  wriggled  and  slipped  its  way 
courageously  along  the  rutted,  dirty  snow. 

Around  the  corner  next  to  the  hotel  stood  Hud 
son's  home.  It  was  a  large  house  of  tortured  archi 
tecture,  cupolas  and  twisted  supports  and  strange, 
overlapping  scallops  of  wood,  painted  wavy  green, 
pinkish  red  and  yellow.  Its  windows  were  of  every 
size  and  shape  and  appeared  in  unreasonable,  im 
possible  places  —  opening  enormous  mouths  on  tiny 
balconies  with  twisted  posts  and  scalloped  railings, 
like  embroidery  patterns,  one  on  top  of  the  other  up 
to  a  final  absurdity  of  a  bird  cage  which  found  room 
for  itself  between  two  cupolas  under  the  roof. 

Up  the  steps  of  the  porch  Mrs.  Hudson  mounted 
grimly,  followed  by  Babe.  Sylvester  stayed  to  tinker 
with  the  car,  and  Sheila,  after  a  doubtful,  tremulous 
moment,  went  slowly  up  the  icy  path  after  the  two 
women. 


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THE  FINEST  CITY  IN  THE  WORLD     23 

She  stumbled  a  little  on  the  lowest  step  and,  in  re 
covering  herself,  she  happened  to  turn  her  head.  And 
so,  between  two  slender  aspen  trees  that  grew  side  by 
side  like  white,  captive  nymphs  in  Hudson's  yard, 
she  saw  a  mountain- top.  The  sun  had  set.  There  was 
a  crystal,  turquoise  translucency  behind  the  exquis 
ite  snowy  peak,  which  seemed  to  stand  there  facing 
God,  forgetful  of  the  world  behind  it,  remote  and 
reverent  and  most  serene  in  the  light  of  His  glory. 
And  just  above  where  the  turquoise  faded  to  pure 
pale  green,  a  big  white  star  trembled.  Sheila's  heart 
stopped  in  her  breast.  She  stood  on  the  step  and 
drew  breath,  throwing  back  her  veil.  A  flush  crept  up 
into  her  face.  She  felt  that  she  had  been  traveling  ail 
her  life  toward  her  meeting  with  this  mountain  and 
this  star.  She  felt  radiant  and  comforted. 

"How  beautiful!"  she  whispered. 

Sylvester  had  joined  her. 

"Finest  city  in  the  world!"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MOONSHINE 

DICKIE  HUDSON  pushed  from  him  to  the  full  length  of 
his  arm  the  ledger  of  The  Aura  Hotel,  tilted  his  chair 
back  from  the  desk,  and,  leaning  far  over  to  one  side, 
set  the  needle  on  a  phonograph  record,  pressed  the 
starter,  and  absorbed  himself  in  rolling  and  lighting 
a  cigarette.  This  accomplished,  he  put  his  hands  be 
hind  his  head  and,  wreathed  in  aromatic,  bluish  smoke, 
gave  himself  up  to  complete  enjoyment  of  the  music. 
It  was  a  song  from  some  popular  light  opera.  A 
very  high  soprano  and  a  musical  tenor  duet,  senti 
mental,  humoresque: 

"There,  dry  your  eyes, 
I  sympathize 

Just  as  a  mother  would  — 
Give  me  your  hand, 
I  understand,  we  're  off  to  slumber  land 
Like  a  father,  like  a  mother,  like  a  sister, 
like  a  brother." 

Listening  to  this  melody,  Dickie  Hudson's  face  under 
the  gaslight  expressed  a  rapt  and  spiritual  delight, 
tender,  romantic,  melancholy. 

He  was  a  slight,  undersized  youth,  very  pale,  very 
fair,  with  the  face  of  a  delicate  boy.  He  had  large, 
near-sighted  blue  eyes  in  which  lurked  a  wistful, 
deprecatory  smile,  a  small  chin  running  from  wide 


MOONSHINE  25 

cheek-bones  to  a  point.  His  lips  were  sensitive  and 
undecided,  his  nose  unformed,  his  hair  soft  and  easily 
ruffled.  There  were  hard  blue  marks  under  the  long- 
lashed  eyes,  an  unhealthy  pallor  to  his  cheeks,  a 
slight  unsteadiness  of  his  fingers. 

Dickie  held  a  position  of  minor  importance  in  the 
hotel,  and  his  pale,  innocent  face  was  almost  as  famil 
iar  to  its  patrons  as  to  those  of  the  saloon  next  door  — 
more  familiar  to  both  than  it  was  to  Hudson's  "resi 
dence."  Sometimes  for  weeks  Dickie  did  not  strain 
the  scant  welcome  of  his  "folks."  To-night,  however, 
he  was  resolved  to  tempt  it.  After  listening  to  the 
record,  he  strolled  over  to  the  saloon. 

Dickie  was  curious.  He  shared  Milling's  interest 
in  the  "young  lady  from  Noo  York."  Shyness  fought 
with  a  sense  of  adventure,  until  to-night,  a  night 
fully  ten  nights  after  Sheila's  arrival,  the  courage  he 
imbibed  at  the  bar  of  The  Aura  gave  him  the  neces 
sary  impetus.  He  pulled  himself  up  from  his  elbow, 
removed  his  foot  from  the  rail,  straightened  his 
spotted  tie,  and  pushed  through  the  swinging  doors 
out  into  the  night. 

It  was  a  moonlit  night,  as  still  and  pure  as  an  angel 
of  annunciation  —  a  night  that  carried  tall,  silver 
lilies  in  its  hands.  Above  the  small,  sleepy  town  were 
lifted  the  circling  rim  of  mountains  and  the  web  of 
blazing  stars.  Sylvester's  son,  after  a  few  crunching 
steps  along  the  icy  pavement,  stopped  with  his  hand 
against  the  wall,  and  stood,  not  quite  steadily,  his 


26  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

face  lifted.  The  whiteness  sank  through  his  tainted 
body  and  brain  to  the  undefiled  child-soul.  The  stars 
blazed  awfully  for  Dickie,  and  the  mountains  were 
awfully  white  and  high,  and  the  air  shattered  against 
his  spirit  like  a  crystal  sword.  He  stood  for  an  instant 
as  though  on  a  single  point  of  solid  earth  and  looked 
giddily  beyond  earthly  barriers. 

His  lips  began  to  move.  He  was  trying  to  put  that 
mystery,  that  emotion,  into  words  .  .  .  "It's  white," 
he  murmured,  "and  sharp  —  burning  —  like  —  like " 
—  his  fancy  fumbled  —  "like  the  inside  of  a  cold 
flame."  He  shook  his  head.  That  did  not  describe 
the  marvelous  quality  of  the  night.  And  yet  —  if  the 
world  had  gone  up  to  heaven  in  a  single,  streaming 
point  of  icy  fire  and  a  fellow  stood  in  it,  frozen, 
swept  up  out  of  a  fellow's  body  .  .  .  Again  he  shook 
his  head  and  his  eyes  were  possessed  by  the  wistful, 
apologetic  smile.  He  wished  he  were  not  tormented 
by  this  queer  need  of  describing  his  sensations.  He 
remembered  very  vividly  one  of  the  many  occasions 
when  it  had  roused  his  father's  anger.  Dickie,  stand 
ing  with  his  hand  against  the  cold  bricks  of  The  Aura, 
smiled  with  his  lips,  not  happily,  but  with  a  certain 
amusement,  thinking  of  how  Sylvester's  hand  had 
cracked  against  his  cheek  and  sent  all  his  thoughts 
flying  like  broken  china.  He  had  been  apologizing 
for  his  slowness  over  an  errand  —  something  about 
leaves,  it  had  been  —  the  leaves  of  those  aspens  in 
the  yard  —  he  had  told  his  father  that  they  had  been 


MOONSHINE  27 

little  green  flames  —  he  had  stopped  to  look  at  them. 
"You  damn  fool!"  Sylvester  had  said  as  he  struck. 
"You  damn  fool!"  Once,  when  a  stranger  asked  five- 
year-old  Dickie  his  name,  he  had  answered  inno 
cently  "Dickie-damn-fool!" 

"They'll  probably  put  it  on  my  tombstone," 
Dickie  concluded,  and,  stung  by  the  cold,  he  shrank 
into  his  coat  and  stumbled  round  the  corner  of  the 
street.  The  reek  of  spirits  trailed  behind  him  through 
the  purity  like  a  soiled  rag. 

Number  18  Cotton  wood  Avenue  was  brilliantly 
lighted.  Girlie  was  playing  the  piano,  Babe's,  voice, 
"sassing  Poppa,"  was  audible  from  one  end  to  the 
other  of  the  empty  street.  Her  laughter  slapped  the 
air.  Dickie  hesitated.  He  was  afraid  of  them  all  —  of 
Sylvester's  pensive,  small,  brown  eyes  and  hard,  long 
hands,  of  Babe's  bodily  vigor,  of  Girlie's  mild  con 
temptuous  look,  of  his  mother's  gloomy,  furtive  ten 
derness.  Dickie  felt  a  sort  of  aching  and  compas 
sionate  dread  of  the  rough,  awkward  caress  of  her 
big  red  hand  against  his  cheek.  As  he  hesitated,  the 
door  opened  —  a  blaze  of  light,  yellow  as  old  gold, 
streamed  into  the  blue  brilliance  of  the  moon.  It  was 
blotted  out  and  a  figure  came  quickly  down  the  steps. 
It  had  an  air  of  hurry  and  escape.  A  small,  slim  figure, 
it  came  along  the  path  and  through  the  gate;  then, 
after  just  an  instant  of  hesitation,  it  turned  away 
from  Dickie  and  sped  up  the  wide  street. 

Dickie  named  it  at  once.  "That's  the  girl,"  he  said; 


28  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

and  possessed  by  his  curiosity  and  by  the  sense  of  ad 
venture  which  whiskey  had  fortified,  he  began  to  walk 
rapidly  in  the  same  direction.  Out  there,  where  the 
short  street  ended,  began  the  steep  side  of  a  mesa. 
The  snow  on  the  road  that  was  graded  along  its  front 
was  packed  by  the  runners  of  freighting  sleighs,  but 
it  was  rough.  He  could  not  believe  the  girl  meant  to 
go  for  a  walk  alone.  And  yet,  would  she  be  out  visit 
ing  already,  she,  a  stranger?  At  the  end  of  the  street 
the  small,  determined  figure  did  not  stop;  it  went  on, 
a  little  more  slowly,  but  as  decidedly  as  ever,  up  the 
slope.  On  the  hard,  frozen  crust,  her  feet  made  hardly 
a  sound.  Above  the  level  top  of  the  white  hill,  the 
peak  that  looked  remote  from  Hudson's  yard  became 
immediate.  It  seemed  to  peer  —  to  lean  forward, 
bright  as  a  silver  helmet  against  the  purple  sky. 
Dickie  could  see  that  "the  girl"  walked  with  her  head 
tilted  back  as  though  she  were  looking  at  the  sky. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  sheer  beauty  of  the  winter  night 
that  had  brought  her  out.  Following  slowly  up  the 
hill,  he  felt  a  sense  of  nearness,  of  warmth;  his  aching, 
lifelong  loneliness  was  remotely  comforted  because  a 
girl,  skimming  ahead  of  him,  had  tilted  her  chin  up 
so  that  she  could  see  the  stars.  She  reached  the  top 
of  the  mesa  several  minutes  before  he  did  and  disap 
peared.  She  was  now,  he  knew,  on  the  edge  of  a  great 
plateau,  in  summer  covered  with  the  greenish  silver 
of  sagebrush,  now  an  unbroken,  glittering  expanse. 
He  stood  still  to  get  his  breath  and  listen  to  the  very 


MOONSHINE  £9 

light  crunch  of  her  steps.  He  could  hear  a  coyote  wail 
ing  off  there  in  the  foothills,  and  the  rushing  noise  of 
the  small  mountain  river  that  hurled  itself  down  upon 
Millings,  ran  through  it  at  frenzied  speed,  and  made 
for  the  canon  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley.  Below 
him  Millings  twinkled  with  a  few  sparse  lights,  and 
he  could,  even  from  here,  distinguish  the  clatter  of 
Babe's  voice.  But  when  he  came  to  the  top,  Millings 
dropped  away  from  the  reach  of  his  senses.  Here  was 
dazzling  space,  the  amazing  presence  of  the  moun 
tains,  the  pressure  of  the  starry  sky.  Far  off  already 
across  the  flat,  that  small,  dark  figure  moved.  She 
had  left  the  road,  which  ran  parallel  with  the  moun 
tain  range,  and  was  walking  over  the  hard,  sparkling 
crust.  It  supported  her  weight,  but  Dickie  was  not 
sure  that  it  would  do  the  same  for  his.  He  tried  it 
carefully.  It  held,  and  he  followed  the  faint  track  of 
small  feet.  It  did  not  occur  to  him,  dazed  as  he  was 
by  the  fumes  of  whiskey  and  the  heady  air,  that  the 
sight  of  a  man  in  swift  pursuit  of  her  loneliness  might 
frighten  Sheila.  For  some  reason  he  imagined  that 
she  would  know  that  he  was  Sylvester's  son,  and  that 
he  was  possessed  only  by  the  most  sociable  and  pro 
tective  impulses. 

He  was,  besides,  possessed  by  a  fateful  feeling  that 
it  was  intended  that  out  here  in  the  brilliant  night  he 
should  meet  her  and  talk  to  her.  The  adventurous 
heart  of  Dickie  was  aflame. 

When  the  hurrying  figure  stopped  and  turned 


30  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

quickly,  he  did  not  pause,  but  rather  hastened  his 
steps.  He  saw  her  lift  her  muff  up  to  her  heart,  saw 
her  waver,  then  move  resolutely  toward  him.  She 
came  thus  two  or  three  steps,  when  a  treacherous 
pitfall  in  the  snow  opened  under  her  frightened  feet 
and  she  went  down  almost  shoulder  deep.  Dickie  ran 
forward. 

Bending  over  her,  he  saw  her  white,  heart-shaped 
face,  and  its  red  mouth  as  startling  as  a  June  rose  out 
here  in  the  snow.  And  he  saw,  too,  the  panic  of  her 
shining  eyes. 

"Miss  Arundel "  -  his  voice  came  thin  and  tender, 
feeling  its  way  doubtfully  as  though  it  was  too  heavy 
a  reality  —  "let  me  help  you.  You  are  Miss  Arundel, 
are  n't  you?  I'm  Dickie  —  Dickie  Hudson,  Pap  Hud 
son's  son.  You  had  n't  ought  to  be  scared.  I  saw  you 
coming  out  alone  and  took  after  you.  I  thought  you 
might  find  it  kind  of  lonesome  up  here  on  the  flat  at 
night  in  all  the  moonlight  —  hearing  the  coyotes  and 
all.  And,  look-a-here,  you  might  have  had  a  time  get 
ting  out  of  the  snow.  Oncet  a  fellow  breaks  through 
it  sure  means  a  floundering  time  before  a  fellow  pulls 
himself  out  - 

She  had  given  him  a  hand,  and  he  had  pulled  her 
up  beside  him.  Her  smile  of  relief  seemed  very  beau 
tiful  to  Dickie. 

"I  came  out,"  she  said,  "because  it  looked  so  won 
derful  —  and  I  wanted  to  see  —  "  She  stopped,  look 
ing  at  him  doubtfully,  as  though  she  expected  him 


MOONSHINE  31 

not  to  understand,  to  think  her  rather  mad.  But  he 
finished  her  sentence. 

" —  To  see  the  mountains,  was  n't  it?" 

"Yes."  She  was  again  relieved,  almost  as  much  so, 
it  seemed,  as  at  the  knowledge  of  his  friendliness. 
"Especially  that  big  one."  She  waved  her  muff  to 
ward  the  towering  peak.  "I  never  did  see  such  a 
night!  It's  like  —  it's  like  —  "  She  widened  her  eyes, 
as  though,  by  taking  into  her  brain  an  immense  pic 
ture  of  the  night,  she  might  find  out  its  likeness. 

Dickie,  moving  uncertainly  beside  her,  murmured, 
"Like  the  inside  of  a  cold  flame,  a  very  white  flame." 

Sheila  turned  her  chin,  pointed  above  the  fur  collar 
of  her  coat,  and  included  him  in  the  searching  and 
astonished  wideness  of  her  look. 

"You  work  at  The  Aura,  don't  you?"  she  asked 
with  childlike  brusquerie. 

Dickie's  sensitive,  undecided  mouth  settled  into 
mournfulness.  He  looked  away. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said  plaintively. 

Sheila's  widened  eyes,  still  fixed  upon  him,  began 
to  embarrass  him.  A  flush  came  up  into  his  face. 

She  moved  her  look  across  him  and  away  to  the 
range. 

"It  is  like  that,"  she  said  —  "like  a  cold  flame, 
going  up  —  how  did  you  think  of  that?" 

Dickie  looked  quickly,  gratefully  at  her.  "I  kind 
of  felt,"  he  said  lamely,  "that  I  had  got  to  find  out 
what  it  was  like.  But "  —  he  shook  his  head  with  his 


32  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

deprecatory  smile  —  "but  that  don't  tell  it,  Miss 
Arundel.  It's  more  than  that."  He  smiled  again.  "I 
bet  you,  you  could  think  of  somethin'  better  to  say 
about  it,  could  n't  you?" 

Sheila  laughed.  "What  a  funny  boy  you  are!  Not 
like  the  others.  You  don't  even  look  like  them.  How 
old  are  you?  When  I  first  saw  you  I  thought  you  were 
quite  grown  up.  But  you  can't  be  much  more  than 
nineteen." 

"Just  that,"  he  said,  "but  I'll  be  twenty  next 
month." 

"You  Ve  always  lived  here  in  Millings?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am.  Do  you  like  it?  I  mean,  do  you  like 
Millings?  I  hope  you  do." 

Sheila  pressed  her  muff  against  her  mouth  and 
looked  at  him  over  it.  Her  eyes  were  shining  as  though 
the  moonlight  had  got  into  their  misty  gray  ness.  She 
shook  her  head;  then,  as  his  face  fell,  she  began  to 
apologize. 

"Your  father  has  been  so  awfully  kind  to  me.  I  am 
so  grateful.  And  the  girls  are  awfully  good  to  me.  But, 
Millings,  you  know?  —  I  would  n't  have  told  you," 
she  said  half -angrily,  "if  I  had  n't  been  so  sure  you 
hated  it." 

They  had  come  to  the  edge  of  the  mesa,  and  there 
below  shone  the  small,  scattered  lights  of  the  town. 
The  graphophone  was  playing  in  the  saloon.  Its  music 
—  some  raucous,  comic  song  —  insulted  the  night. 

"Why,  no,"  said  Dickie,  "I  don't  hate  Millings.  I 


MOONSHINE  33 

never  thought  about  it  that  way.  It's  not  such  a  bad 
place.  Honest,  it  is  n't.  There 's  lots  of  fine  folks  in  it. 
Have  you  met  Jim  Greely?" 

"Why,  no,  but  I've  seen  him.  Is  n't  that  Girlie's 
-'fellow'?" 

Dickie  made  round,  respectful  eyes.  He  was  evi 
dently  very  much  impressed. 

"Say!"  he  ejaculated.  "Is  that  the  truth?  Girlie's 
aiming  kind  of  high." 

It  was  not  easy  to  walk  side  by  side  on  the  rutted 
snow  of  the  road.  Sheila  here  slipped  ahead  of  him 
and  went  on  quickly  along  the  middle  rut  where  the 
horses'  hoofs  had  beaten  a  pitted  path. 

She  looked  back  at  him  over  her  shoulder  with  a 
sort  of  malice. 

"Is  it  aiming  high?"  she  said.  "Girlie  is  much  more 
beautiful  than  Jim  Greely." 

"Oh,  but  he's  some  looker  —  Jim." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  she  said  indifferently,  with  a 
dainty  touch  of  scorn. 

Dickie  staggered  physically  from  the  shock  of  her 
speech.  She  had  been  speaking  —  was  it  possible?  - 
of  Jim  Greely  .  .  . 

"I  mean  Mr.  James  Greely,  the  son  of  the  president 
of  the  Millings  National  Bank,"  he  said  painstak 
ingly,  and  a  queer  confusion  came  to  him  that  the 
words  were  his  feet  and  that  neither  were  under  his 
control.  Also,  he  was  not  sure  that  he  had  said  "Nat 
ural,"  or  "  National." 


34  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

"I  do  mean  Mr.  James  Greely,"  Sheila's  clear 
voice  came  back  to  him.  "He  is,  I  should  think,  a  very 
great  hero  of  yours." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Dickie. 

Astonished  at  the  abject  humility  of  his  tone. 
Sheila  stopped  and  turned  quite  around  to  look  at 
him.  He  seemed  to  be  floundering  in  and  out  of  in 
visible  holes  in  the  snow.  He  stepped  very  high, 
plunged,  put  out  his  hand,  and  righted  himself  by  her 
shoulder.  And  he  stayed  there,  lurched  against  her 
for  a  moment.  She  shook  him  off  and  began  to  run 
down  the  hill.  His  breath  had  struck  her  face.  She 
knew  that  he  was  drunk. 

Dickie  followed  her  as  fast  as  he  could.  Several 
times  he  fell,  but,  on  the  whole,  he  made  fairly  rapid 
progress,  so  that,  by  the  time  she  dashed  into  the 
Hudsons'  gate,  he  was  only  a  few  steps  behind  her 
and  caught  the  gate  before  it  shut.  Sheila  fled  up  the 
steps  and  beat  at  the  door  with  her  fist.  Dickie  was 
just  behind  her. 

Sylvester  himself  opened  the  door.  Back  of  him 
pressed  Babe. 

"Why,  say,"  she  said,  "it's  Sheila  and  she's  got  a 
beau  already.  You're  some  girl  —  " 

"Please  let  me  in,"  begged  Sheila;   "I  —  I  am 
frightened.  It 's  your  brother,  Dickie  —  but  I  think  — 
there's  something  wrong  —  " 

Sylvester  put  his  hand  on  her  and  pushed  her  to 
one  side. 


MOONSHINE  35 

He  strode  out  on  the  small  porch.  Dickie  wavered 
before  him  on  the  top  step. 

"I  thought  I'd  make  the  ac-acquaintance  of  the 
young  lady,"  he  began  doubtfully.  "I  saw  her  admir 
ing  at  the  stars  and  I  - 

"Oh,  you  did!"  snarled  Hudson.  "All  right.  Now 
go  and  make  acquaintance  with  the  bottom  step." 
He  thrust  a  long,  hard  hand  at  Dickie's  chest,  and  the 
boy  fell  backward,  clattering  ruefully  down  the  steps 
with  a  rattle  of  thin  knees  and  elbows.  At  the  bottom 
he  lay  for  a  minute,  painfully  huddled  in  the  snow. 

"Go  in,  Miss  Sheila,"  said  Sylvester.  "I'm  sorry 
my  son  came  home  to-night  and  frightened  you.  He 
usually  has  more  sense.  He'll  have  more  sense  next 
time." 

He  ran  down  the  steps,  but  before  he  could  reach 
the  huddled  figure  it  gathered  itself  fearfully  together 
and  fled,  limping  and  staggering  across  the  yard, 
through  the  gate  and  around  the  corner  of  the  street. 

Hudson  came  up,  breathing  hard. 

"Where's  Sheila?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"She  ran  upstairs,"  said  Babe.  "Ain't  it  a  shame? 
What  got  into  Dick?" 

"Something  that  will  get  kicked  out  of  him  good 
and  proper  to-morrow,"  said  his  father  grimly. 

He  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  steep,  narrow  stairs, 
looking  up,  his  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets,  his 
under  lip  stuck  out.  His  eyes  were  unusually  gentle 
and  pensive. 


36  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

"I  would  n't  'a'  had  her  scared  that  way  for  any 
thing,"  he  said,  "not  for  anything.  That's  likely  to 
spoil  all  my  plans." 

He  swore  under  his  breath,  wheeled  about,  and 
going  into  the  parlor  he  shut  the  door  and  began  walk 
ing  to  and  fro.  Babe  crept  rather  quietly  up  the  stairs. 
There  were  times  when  even  Babe  was  afraid  of 
"Poppa." 


CHAPTER  V 

INTERCESSION 

BABE  tiptoed  up  the  first  flight,  walked  solidly  and 
boldly  up  the  second,  and  ran  up  the  third.  She  had 
decided  to  have  a  talk  with  Sheila,  to  soothe  her 
indignation,  and,  if  possible,  to  explain  Dickie.  It 
seemed  to  Babe  that  Dickie  needed  explanation. 

Sheila's  room  was  at  the  top  of  the  house  —  the 
very  room,  in  fact,  whose  door  opened  on  the  bird 
cage  of  a  balcony  between  two  cupolas.  Babe  came  to 
the  door  and  knocked.  A  voice  answered  sharply: 
"Come  in,"  and  Babe,  entering,  shut  the  door  and 
leaned  against  it. 

It  was  a  small,  bare,  whitewashed  room,  with  a 
narrow  cot,  a  washstand,  a  bureau,  and  two  extraor 
dinary  chairs  —  a  huge  one  that  rocked  on  dam 
aged  springs,  enclosed  in  plaited  leather  like  the  case 
of  an  accordion,  and  one  that  had  been  a  rocker,  but 
stood  unevenly  on  its  diminished  legs.  Babe  had  pro 
tested  against  Momma's  disposal  of  the  "girl  from 
Noo  York,"  and  had  begged  that  Sheila  be  allowed 
to  share  her  own  red,  white,  and  blue  boudoir  below. 
But  Sheila  had  preferred  her  small  room.  It  was  red 
as  a  rose  at  sunset,  still  and  high,  remote  from  Mill 
ings,  and  it  faced  The  Hill. 

Now,  the  gaslight  flared  against  the  bare  walls  and 


38  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

ceiling.  Sheila's  hat  and  coat  and  muff  lay  on  the  bed 
where  she  had  thrown  them.  She  stood,  looking  at 
Babe.  Her  face  was  flushed,  her  eyes  gleamed,  that 
slight  exaggeration  of  her  chin  was  more  pronounced 
than  usual. 

Babe  put  her  head  on  one  side.  "Oh,  say,  Sheila, 
why  bother  about  Dickie.  Nobody  cares  about 
Dickie.  He'll  get  a  proper  bawlin'-out  from  Poppa 
to-morrow.  But  I  'd  think  myself  simple  to  be  scared 
by  him.  He 's  harmless.  The  poor  kid  can't  half  help 
himself  now.  He  got  started  when  he  was  awful 
young." 

"Oh,"  said  Sheila,  as  sharply  as  before,  stopping 
before  Babe,  "I'm  not  frightened.  I'm  angry  — 
angry  at  myself.  I  like  Dickie.  I  like  him!" 

Babe's  lips  fell  apart.  She  sat  down  in  the  ac 
cordion-plaited  chair  and  rocked.  A  squealing,  shak 
ing  noise  accompanied  the  motion.  Her  fingers  sought 
and  found  against  the  chair-back  a  piece  of  chewing- 
gum  which  she  had  stuck  there  during  her  last  visit 
to  Sheila.  Babe  hid  and  resurrected  chewing-gum  as 
instinctively  as  a  dog  hides  and  resurrects  his  bones. 

"I  can  see  you  likin'  Dickie,"  she  remarked  ironi 
cally. 

"But  I  do,  I  tell  you!  He  was  sweet.  He  did  n't  say 
a  word  or  do  a  thing  to  frighten  me  —  ' 

"But  he  was  full,  Shee,  you  know  he  was." 

"Yes.  He'd  been  drinking.  I  smelt  it.  And  he  did  n't 
walk  very  straight,  and  he  was  a  little  mixed  in  his 


INTERCESSION  39 

speech.  But,  all  the  same,  he  was  as  good  as  gold.  And 
friendly  and  nice.  I  might  have  walked  home  quietly 
with  him  and  sent  him  away  at  the  door.  And  he 
would  n't  have  been  seen  by  his  father."  Sheila's  eyes 
filled.  "It  was  dreadful  —  to  —  to  knock  him  down 
the  steps!" 

"Say,  if  you'd  had  as  much  to  put  up  with  from 
Dickie  as  Poppa  's  had  - 

"Oh,"  said  Sheila  in  a  tone  that  welled  up  as  from 
under  a  weight,  "if  I  had  always  lived  in  Millings, 
I'd  drink  myself!" 

Babe  looked  red  and  resentful,  but  Sheila's  voice 
rushed  on. 

"That  saloon  is  the  only  interesting  and  attractive 
place  in  town.  The  only  thrilling  people  that  ever 
come  here  go  in  through  those  doors.  I  've  seen  some 
wonderful-looking  men.  I'd  like  to  paint  them.  I've 
made  some  drawings  of  them  —  men  from  over  there 
back  of  the  mountains." 

"You  mean  the  cowboys  from  over  The  Hill,  I 
guess,"  drawled  Babe  contemptuously.  "Those  sage 
brush  fellows  from  Hidden  Creek.  I  don't  think  a 
whole  lot  of  them.  Put  one  of  them  alongside  of 
one  of  our  town  boys !  Why,  they  don't  speak  good, 
Sheila,  and  they're  rough  as  a  hill  trail.  You'd  be 
scared  to  death  of  them  if  you  knew  them  better." 

"They  look  like  real  men  to  me,"  said  Sheila.  "And 
I  never  did  like  towns." 

"But  you're  a  town  girl." 


40  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

"I  am  not.  I've  been  in  cities  and  I've  been  in  the 
country.  I've  never  lived  in  a  town." 

"Well,  there'll  be  a  dance  one  of  these  days  next 
summer  in  the  Town  Hall,  and  maybe  you'll  meet 
some  of  those  rough-necks.  You  '11  change  your  mind 
about  them.  Why,  I'd  sooner  dance  with  a  sheep- 
herder  from  beyond  the  bad-lands,  or  with  one  of  the 
hands  from  the  oil-fields,  than  with  those  Hidden 
Creek  fellows.  Horse-thieves  and  hold-ups  and  Lord 
knows  what-all  they  are.  No  account  runaways. 
Nothing  solid  or  respectable  about  them.  Take  a  boy 
like  Robert,  now,  or  Jim  - 

Sheila  put  her  hands  to  her  ears.  Her  face,  be 
tween  the  hands,  looked  rather  wicked  in  a  sprite-like 
fashion. 

"Don't  mention  to  me  Mr.  James  Greely  of  the 
Millings  National  Bank!" 

Babe  rose  pompously.  "I  think  you're  kind  of  off 
your  bat  to-night,  Sheila  Arundel,"  she  said,  chewing 
noisily.  "First  you  run  out  at  night  with  the  mercury 
at  4  below  and  come  dashing  back  scared  to  death, 
banging  at  the  door,  and  then  you  tell  me  you  like 
Dickie  and  ask  me  not  to  mention  the  finest  fellow 
in  Millings!" 

"The  finest  fellow  in  the  finest  city  in  the  world!" 
cried  Sheila  and  laughed.  Her  laugh  was  like  a  torrent 
of  silver  coins,  but  it  had  the  right  maliceful  ring  of 
a  brownie's  "Ho!  Ho!  Ho!" 

Babe  stopped  in  the  doorway  and  spoke  heavily. 


INTERCESSION  41 

"You're  short  on  sense,  Sheila,"  she  said.  "  You're 
kind  of  dippy  .  .  .  going  out  to  look  at  the  stars  and 
drawing  pictures  of  that  Hidden  Creek  trash.  But 
you'll  learn  better,  maybe." 

"Wait  a  minute,  Babe!"  Sheila  was  sober  again 
and  not  unpenitent.  "I'm  coming  down  with  you.  I 
want  to  tell  your  father  that  Dickie  was  sweet  to  me. 
I  don't  want  him  to  —  to  —  what  was  it  he  was 
going  to  do  to-morrow?" 

"Bawl  Dickie  out." 

"Yes.  I  don't  want  him  to  do  that.  It  sounds 
awful." 

"Well,  it  is.  But  it  won't  hurt  Dickie  any.  He's 
used  to  it." 

Babe,  forgiving  and  demonstrative,  here  forgot  the 
insult  to  Millings  and  Jim  Greely,  put  her  arm  round 
Sheila,  and  went  down  the  stairs,  squeezing  the 
smaller  girl  against  the  wall. 

"I  guess  I  won't  go  with  you  to  see  Poppa,"  she 
said,  stopping  at  the  top  of  the  last  flight.  "Poppa 's 
kind  of  a  rough  talker  sometimes." 

Sheila  looked  rather  alarmed.  "You  mean  you 
think  he  —  he  will  bawl  me  out?" 

"I  wouldn't  wonder."  Babe  smiled,  showing  a 
lump  of  putty-colored  chewing-gum  between  her 
flashing  teeth. 

Sheila  stood  halfway  down  the  stairs.  She  had  not 
yet  quite  admitted  to  herself  that  she  was  afraid  of 
Sylvester  Hudson  and  now  she  did  admit  it.  But  with 


42  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

a  forlorn  memory  of  Dickie,  she  braced  herself  and 
went  slowly  down  the  six  remaining  steps.  The  par 
lor  door  was  shut  and  back  of  it  to  and  fro  prowled 
Sylvester.  Sheila  opened  the  door. 

Hudson's  face,  ready  with  a  scowl,  changed.  He 
came  quickly  toward  her. 

"Well,  say,  Miss  Sheila,  I  am  sure-ly  sorry  - 

Sheila  shook  her  head.  "Not  half  so  sorry  as  I  am, 
Mr.  Hudson.  I  came  down  to  apologize." 

He  pulled  out  a  chair  and  Sheila  sat  down.  Syl 
vester  placed  himself  opposite  to  her  and  lighted  a 
huge  black  cigar,  watching  her  meanwhile  curiously, 
even  anxiously.  His  face  was  as  quiet  and  sallow  and 
gentle  as  usual.  Sheila's  fear  subsided. 

"  You  came  down  to  apologize?"  repeated  Hudson. 
"Well,  ma'am,  that  sounds  kind  of  upside  down  to 
me." 

"I  behaved  like  a  goose.  Your  son  had  n't  done  or 
said  anything  to  frighten  me.  He  was  sweet.  I  like 
him  so  much.  He  was  coming  home  and  saw  me  walk 
ing  off  alone,  and  he  thought  that  I  might  be  lonely 
or  frightened  or  fall  into  the  snow  —  which  I  did"  — 
Sheila  smiled  coaxingly;  "I  went  down  up  to  my 
neck  and  Dickie  pulled  me  out  and  was  —  lovely  to 
me.  It  was  n't  till  I  was  halfway  down  the  hill  that 
I — that  it  came  to  me,  all  of  a  sudden,  that — perhaps 
—  he  'd  been  drinking  —  " 

"Perhaps,"  said  Sylvester  dryly.  "It's  never  per 
haps  with  Dickie." 


INTERCESSION  43 

Sheila's  eyes  filled.  For  a  seventeen-year-old  girl 
the  situation  was  difficult.  It  was  not  easy  to  discuss 
Dickie's  habit  with  his  father. 

"I  am  so  — sorry,"  she  faltered.  "I  behaved  ab 
surdly.  Just  because  I  saw  that  he  was  n't  quite  him 
self  I  ran  away  from  him  and  made  a  scene.  Truly, 
Mr.  Hudson,  he  had  not  said  or  done  anything  the 
least  bit  horrid.  He'd  been  sensible  and  nice  and 
friendly  —  Oh,  dear!"  For  she  saw  before  her  a  re 
lentless  and  incredulous  face.  "You  won't  believe  me 
now,  I  suppose!" 

"I  can't  altogether,  Miss  Sheila,  for  I  reckon  you 
would  n't  have  run  away  from  a  true-blue,  friendly 
fellow,  would  you?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Hudson,  I  would.  Because,  you  see,  I 
did.  It  was  just  a  sort  of  panic.  Too  much  moon 
shine." 

"Yes,  ma'am.  Too  much  moonshine  inside  of 
Dickie.  I  hope  "  —  he  leaned  toward  her,  and  Sheila, 
the  child,  could  not  help  but  be  flattered  by  his  defer 
ence —  "I  hope  you're  not  thinking  that  Dickie's 
unfortunate  habit  is  my  fault.  I'm  his  father  and  I 
own  that  saloon.  But,  all  the  same,  it's  not  my  fault 
nor  The  Aura's  fault  either.  I  never  did  spoil  Dickie. 
And  I'm  a  sober  man  myself.  He's  just  naturally 
ornery,  no  account.  He  always  was.  I  believe  he's 
kind  of  lacking  in  the  upper  story." 

"Oh,  no,  Mr.  Hudson!" 

The  protest  was  so  emphatic  that  Sylvester  pulled 


44  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

liis  cigar  out  of  his  mouth,  brushed  away  the  smoke, 
and  looked  searchingly  at  Sheila.  She  was  sitting  very 
straight.  Against  the  crimson  plush  of  an  enormous 
chair-back  her  small  figure  looked  extravagantly  del 
icate  and  her  little  pointed  fingers  on  the  arms,  star- 
tlingly  white  and  fine.  A  color  flamed  in  her  cheeks, 
her  eyes  and  lips  were  possessed  by  the  remorseful 
earnestness  of  her  appeal. 

"Well,  say,  if  you  think  not!"  Sylvester  narrowed 
his  eyes  and  thrust  the  cigar  back  into  a  hole  made 
by  his  mouth  for  its  reception;  "you're  the  first 
person  that  has  n't  kind  of  agreed  with  me  on  that 
point.  I  can't  see  why  he  took  to  the  whiskey,  anyway. 
Moderation's  my  motto  and  always  was.  It's  the 
motto  of  The  Aura.  There  ain't  a  bar  east  nor  west  of 
the  Rockies,  Miss  Sheila,  believe  me,  that  has  the  rep 
utation  for  decency  and  moderation  that  my  Aura 
has.  She's  classy,  she's  stylish  —  well,  sir  —  she's 
exquisite"  —  he  pronounced  it  ex-squisit —  "I  don't 
mind  sayin*  so.  She's  a  saloon  in  a  million.  And  she's 
famous.  You  can  hear  talk  of  The  Aura  in  the  best 
clubs,  the  most  se-lect  bars  of  Chicago  and  Noo  York 
and  San  Francisco.  She's  mighty  near  perfect.  Well, 
say,  there  was  an  Englishman  in  there  one  night  two 
summers  ago.  He  was  some  Englishman,  too,  an  earl, 
that  was  him.  Been  all  over  the  world,  east,  west,  and 
in  between.  Had  a  glass  in  his  eye  —  one  of  those  fel- 
]ers.  Do  you  know  what  he  told  me,  Miss  Sheila?  Can 
you  guess?" 


INTERCESSION  45 

"That  The  Aura  was  classy?"  suggested  Sheila 
bravely. 

"  More 'n that,"  Sylvester  leaned  farther  toward  her 
and  emphasized  his  words  with  the  long  forefinger. 

'"It 's  all  but  perfect'  —  that's  what  he  said  —  'it 
only  needs  one  thing  to  make  it  quite  perfect ! ' ' 

"What  was  the  thing?" 

But  Hudson  did  not  heed  her  question.  "Believe 
me  or  not,  Miss  Sheila,  that  saloon  —  " 

"But  I  do  believe  you,"  said  Sheila  with  her  en 
chanting  smile.  "And  that's  just  the  trouble  with 
Dickie,  is  n 't  it?  Your  saloon  is  —  must  be  —  the 
most  fascinating  place  in  Millings.  Why,  Mr.  Hud 
son,  ever  since  I  came  here,  I  've  been  longing  to  go 
into  it  myself!" 

She  got  up  after  this  speech  and  went  to  stand  near 
the  stove.  Not  that  she  was  cold  —  the  small  room, 
which  looked  even  smaller  on  account  of  its  huge 
flaming  furniture  and  the  enormous  roses  on  its  car 
pet  and  wall-paper,  was  as  hot  as  a  furnace  —  but 
because  she  was  abashed  by  her  own  speech  and  by 
his  curious  reception  of  it.  The  dark  blood  of  his  body 
had  risen  to  his  face;  he  had  opened  his  eyes  wide 
upon  her,  had  sunk  back  again  and  begun  to  smoke 
with  short,  excited  puffs. 

Sheila  thought  that  he  was  shocked  and  she  was 
very  close  to  tears.  She  blinked  at  the  stove  and 
moved  her  fingers  uncertainly.  "Nice  girls,"  she 
thought,  "never  want  to  go  into  saloons!" 


46  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

Then  Sylvester  spoke.  "You're  a  girl  in  a  million, 
Miss  Sheila!"  he  said.  His  voice  was  more  cracked 
than  usual.  Sheila  transferred  her  blinking,  almost 
tearful  look  from  the  stove  to  him.  "You're  a  heap 
too  good  for  dish-washing,"  said  Sylvester. 

For  some  reason  the  girl's  heart  began  to  beat  un 
evenly.  She  had  a  feeling  of  excitement  and  suspense. 
It  was  as  if,  after  walking  for  many  hours  through  a 
wood  where  there  was  a  lurking  presence  of  danger, 
she  had  heard  a  nearing  step.  She  kept  her  eyes 
upon  Sylvester.  In  his  there  was  that  mysterious  look 
of  appraisal,  of  vision.  He  seemed  nervous,  rolled  his 
cigar  and  moved  his  feet. 

"Are  you  satisfied  with  your  work,  Miss  Sheila?" 

Sheila  assembled  her  courage.  "I  know  you'll 
think  me  a  beast,  Mr.  Hudson,  after  all  your  kindness 

—  and  it  is  n't  that  I  don't  like  the  work.  But  I  've  a 
feeling  —  no,  it's  more  than  a  feeling!  —  I  know  that 
your  wife  does  n't  need  me.  And  I  know  she  does  n't 
want  me.  She  does  n't  like  to  have  me  here.  I've  been 
unhappy  about  that  ever  since  I  came.  And  it's  been 
getting  worse.  Yesterday  she  said  she  could  n't  bear 
to  have  me  whistling  round  her  kitchen.  Mr.  Hudson  " 

—  Sheila's  voice  broke  childishly  —  "I  can't  help 
whistling.  It 's  a  habit.  I  could  n't  work  at  all  if  I 
did  n't  whistle.  I  would  n't  have  told  you,  but  since 
you  asked  me  —  " 

Sylvester  held  up  his  long  hand.  Its  emerald  glit 
tered. 


INTERCESSION  47 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said.  "I  wanted  to  learn  the 
truth  about  it.  Perhaps  you  Ve  noticed,  Miss  Sheila, 
that  I'm  not  a  very  happy  man  at  home." 

" You  mean—  ?" 

"I  mean,"  said  Sylvester  heavily  —  "Momma." 

Sheila  overcame  a  horrible  inclination  to  laugh. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said  uncertainly.  She  was 
acutely  embarrassed,  but  did  not  know  how  to  es 
cape.  And  she  was  sorry  for  him,  for  certainly  it 
seemed  to  her  that  a  man  married  to  Momma  had 
just  cause  for  unhappiness. 

"I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself  for  bringing  you 
here,  Miss  Sheila.  You  see,  that's  me.  I'm  so  all-fired 
soft-hearted  that  I  just  don't  think.  I'm  all  feelings. 
My  heart's  stronger  than  my  head,  as  the  palmists 
say."  He  rose  and  came  over  to  Sheila ;  standing  beside 
her  and  smiling  so  that  the  wrinkle  stood  out  sharply 
across  his  unwilling  lip.  "Did  you  ever  go  to  one  of 
those  fellows?"  he  asked. 

"Palmists?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  Well,  now,  say,  did  they  ever  tell 
you  that  you  were  going  to  be  the  pride  and  joy  of 
old  Pap  Hudson?  Give  me  your  little  paw,  girl!" 

Sheila's  hand  obeyed  rather  unwillingly  her  irreso 
lute,  polite  will.  Hudson's  came  quickly  to  meet  it, 
spread  it  out  flat  in  his  own  long  palm,  and  examined 
the  small  rigid  surface. 

"Well,  now,  Miss  Sheila,  I  can  read  something 
there." 


48  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

"What  can  you  read?" 

"You're  goin'  to  be  famous.  You're  goin'  to  make 
Millings  famous.  Girl,  you're  goin'  to  be  a  picture 
that  will  live  in  the  hearts  of  fellows  and  keep  'em 
warm  when  they're  herding  winter  nights.  The 
thought  of  you  is  goin'  to  keep  'em  straight  and  pull 
'em  back  here.  You  're  goin'  to  be  a  —  a  sort  of  a 
beacon  light." 

He  was  holding  her  slim  hand  with  its  small,  crush- 
able  bones  in  an  excited  grip.  He  was  bending  forward, 
not  looking  at  the  palm,  but  at  her.  Sheila  pulled 
back,  wincing  a  little. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Hudson?  How  could  I  be 
all  that?" 

Sylvester  let  her  go.  He  began  to  pace  the  room. 
He  stopped  and  looked  at  her,  almost  wistfully. 

"You  really  think  that  I've  been  kind  of  nice  to 
you?"  he  asked. 

"Indeed,  you  have!" 

"I'm  not  a  happy  man  and  I've  got  to  be  sort  of 
distrustful.  I  have  n't  got  much  faith  in  the  thank 
fulness  of  people.  I've  got  fooled  too  often." 

"Try  me,"  said  Sheila  quickly. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  long  and  searching  look. 
Then  he  sighed. 

"Some  day  maybe  I  will.  Run  away  to  bed  now." 

Sheila  felt  as  if  she  had  been  pushed  away  from  a 
half-opened  door.  She  drew  herself  up  and  walked 
across  the  huge  flowers  of  the  carpet.  But  before 


INTERCESSION  49 

going  out  she  turned  back.  Sylvester  quickly  banished 
a  sly  smile. 

"You  won't  be  angry  with  Dickie?"  she  asked. 

"Not  if  it's  going  to  deal  you  any  misery,  little 
girl" 

"You're  very  kind  to  me." 

He  put  up  his  hand.  "That's  all  right,  Miss  Sheila," 
he  said.  "That's  all  right.  It's  a  real  pleasure  and 
comfort  to  me  to  have  you  here  and  I  '11  try  to  shape 
things  so  they  '11  suit  you  —  and  Momma  too.  Trust 
me.  But  don't  you  ask  me  to  put  any  faith  in  Dickie's 
upper  story.  I  've  climbed  up  there  too  often.  I  '11  give 
up  my  plan  to  go  round  there  to-morrow  and  —  "  He 
paused  grimly. 

"And  bawl  him  out?"  suggested  Sheila  with  one 
of  her  Puckish  impulses. 

"Hump!  I  was  going  a  little  further  than  that.  He 
would  likely  have  done  the  bawlin'.  But  don't  you 
worry  yourself  about  Dickie.  He's  safe  for  this  time 
—  so  long's  you  don't  blame  me,  or  —  The  Aura." 

His  voice  on  the  last  word  suffered  from  one  of  its 
cracks.  It  was  as  though  it  had  broken  under  a  load 
of  pride  and  tenderness. 

Sheila  saw  for  a  moment  how  it  was  with  him.  To 
every  man  his  passion  and  his  dream:  to  Sylvester 
Hudson,  his  Aura.  More  than  wife  or  child,  he  loved 
his  bar.  It  was  a  fetish,  an  idol.  To  Sheila's  fancy 
Dickie  suddenly  appeared  the  sacrifice, 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  B  AW  LING-OUT 

DICKIE'S  room  in  The  Aura  Hotel  was  fitted  in  be 
tween  the  Men's  Lavatory  and  the  Linen  Room.  It 
smelt  of  soiled  linen  and  defective  plumbing.  Also, 
into  its  single  narrow  window  rose  the  dust  of  ashes, 
of  old  rags  and  other  refuse  thrown  light-heartedly 
into  the  back  yard,  which  not  being  visible  from  the 
street  supplied  the  typical  housewife  of  a  frontier 
town  with  that  relaxation  from  any  necessity  to  keep 
up  an  appearance  of  economy  and  cleanliness  so 
desirable  to  her  liberty-loving  soul.  The  housekeeper 
at  The  Aura  was  not  Mrs.  Hudson,  but  an  enormously 
stout  young  woman  with  blonde  hair,  named  Amelia 
Flecks.  She  was  so  tightly  laced  and  booted  that  her 
hard  breathing  and  creaking  were  audible  all  over 
the  hotel.  When  Dickie  woke  in  his  narrow  room 
after  his  moonlight  adventure,  he  heard  this  heavy 
breathing  in  the  linen  room  and,  groaning,  thrust  his 
head  under  the  pillow.  With  whatever  bitterness  his 
kindly  heart  could  entertain,  he  loathed  Amelia.  She 
took  advantage  of  the  favor  of  Sylvester  and  of  her 
own  exalted  position  in  the  hotel  to  taunt  and  to 
humiliate  him.  His  plunge  under  the  pillow  did  not 
escape  her  notice. 

"Ain't  you  up  yet,  lazybones?"  she  cried,  rapping 


THE  BAWLING-OUT  51 

on  the  wall.  "You  won't  get  no  breakfast.  It's  half- 
past  seven.  Who's  at  the  desk  to  see  them  Duluth 
folks  off?  Pap's  not  going  to  be  pleased  with  you." 

"I  don't  want  any  breakfast,"  muttered  Dickie. 

Amelia  laughed.  "No.  I'll  be  bound  you  don't. 
Tongue  like  a  kitten  and  a  head  like  a  cracked 
stove!" 

She  slapped  down  some  clean  sheets  on  a  shelf  and 
creaked  toward  the  hall,  but  stopped  at  the  open 
door.  Sylvester  Hudson  was  coming  down  the  passage 
and  she  was  in  no  mind  to  miss  the  "  bawling-out " 
of  Dickie  which  this  visit  must  portend.  She  shut  the 
linen-room  door  softly,  therefore,  and  controlled  her 
breathing. 

But  Dickie  knew  that  she  was  there  and,  when  his 
father  rapped,  he  knew  why  she  was  there. 

He  tumbled  wretchedly  from  his  bed,  swore  at  his 
injured  ankle,  hopped  to  the  door,  unlocked  it,  and 
hopped  back  with  panic  swiftness  before  his  father's 
entrance.  He  sat  in  his  crumpled  pajamas  amidst  his 
crumpled,  dingy  bedclothes,  his  hair  scattered  over 
his  forehead,  his  large,  heavy  eyes  fixed  anxiously 
upon  Sylvester. 

"Say,  Poppa  -    "  he  began. 

Then  "Pap's"  voice  cracked  out  at  him. 

"You  hold  your  tongue,"  snapped  Sylvester,  "or 
you'll  get  what's  comin'  to  you!"  He  jerked  Dickie's 
single  chair  from  against  the  wall,  threw  the  clothing 
from  it,  and  sat  down,  crossing  his  legs,  and  holding 


52  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

up  at  his  son  the  long  finger  that  had  frightened 
Sheila.  Dickie  blinked  at  it. 

"You  know  what  I  was  plannin'  to  do  to  you  after 
last  night?  I  meant  to  come  round  here  and  pull  you 
out  of  your  covers  and  onto  the  floor  there"  —  he 
pointed  to  a  spot  on  the  boards  to  which  Dickie  fear 
fully  directed  his  own  eyes  —  "and  kick  the  stuffin' 
out  of  you."  Dickie  contemplated  the  long,  pointed 
russet  shoes  of  his  parent  and  shuddered  visibly. 
Nevertheless  in  the  slow  look  he  lifted  from  the  boot 
to  his  father's  face,  there  was  a  faint  gleam  of  irony. 

"What  made  you  change  your  mind?"  he  asked 
impersonally. 

It  was  this  curious  detachment  of  Dickie's,  this 
imperturbability,  that  most  infuriated  Hudson.  He 
flushed. 

"Just  a  little  sass  from  you  will  bring  me  back  to 
the  idea,"  he  said  sharply. 

Dickie  lowered  his  eyes. 

"What  made  me  change  was  —  Miss  Arundel's 
kindness.  She  came  and  begged  you  off.  She  said  you 
had  n't  done  anything  or  said  anything  to  frighten 
her,  that  you  'd  been "  —  Sylvester  drawled  out  the 
two  words  in  the  sing-song  of  Western  mockery  — 
"'sweet  and  love-ly."; 

Dickie's  face  was  pink.  He  began  to  tie  a  knot  in 
the  corner  of  one  of  his  thin  gray  sheet-blankets. 

"I  don't  know  how  sweet  and  lovely  you  can  be, 
Dickie,  when  you're  lit  up,  but  I  guess  you  were 


THEN  "PAP'S"  VOICE  CRACKED  OUT  AT  HIM 


THE  BAWLING-OUT  53 

awful  sweet.  Anyway,  if  you  did  n't  say  anything  or 
do  anything  to  scare  her,  you  don't  deserve  a  kickin'. 
But,  just  the  same,  I  've  a  mind  to  turn  you  out  of 
Millings." 

This  time,  Dickie's  look  was  not  ironical.  It  was 
terrified.  "Oh,  Poppa,  say!  I'll  try  not  to  do  it 
again." 

"I  never  heard  that  before,  did  I?"  sneered  Syl 
vester.  "You  put  shame  on  me  and  my  bar.  And  I'm 
not  goin'  to  stand  it.  If  you  want  to  get  drunk  buy 
a  bottle  and  come  up  here  in  your  room.  God  damn 
you!  You're  a  nice  son  for  the  owner  of  The  Aura!" 

He  stood  up  and  looked  with  frank  disgust  at  the 
thin,  huddled  figure.  Under  this  look,  Dickie  grew 
slowly  redder  and  his  eyes  watered. 

Sylvester  lifted  his  upper  lip.  "Faugh!"  he  said. 
He  walked  over  to  the  door.  "Get  up  and  go  down  to 
your  job  and  don't  you  bother  Miss  Sheila  —  hear 
me?  Keep  away  from  her.  She's  not  used  to  your  sort 
and  you'll  disgust  her.  She's  here  under~my  pro 
tection  and  I  Ve  got  my  plans  for  her.  I  'm  her  guard 
ian  —  that's  what  I  am."  Sylvester  was  pleased  like 
a  man  that  has  made  a  discovery.  "Her  guardian," 
he  repeated  as  though  the  word  had  a  fine  taste. 

Dickie  watched  him.  There  was  no  expression  what 
ever  in  his  face  and  his  lips  stood  vacantly  apart.  He 
might  have  been  seven  years  old. 

"Keep  away  from  her  —  hear  me?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Dickie  meekly. 


54  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

After  his  father  had  gone  out,  Dickie  sat  for  an  in 
stant  with  his  head  on  one  side,  listening  intently. 
Then  he  got  up,  limped  quietly  and  quickly  on  his 
bare  feet  out  into  the  hall,  and  locked  the  linen-room 
door  on  the  outside. 

"Amelia's  clean  forgot  to  lock  it,"  he  said  aloud. 
"Ain't  she  careless,  though,  this  morning!" 

He  went  back.  There  was  certainly  a  sound  now 
behind  the  partition,  a  sound  of  hard  breathing  that 
could  no  longer  be  controlled. 

"I'll  hand  the  key  over  to  Mary,"  soliloquized 
Dickie  in  the  hollow  and  unnatural  voice  of  stage 
confidences.  "She'll  be  goin'  in  for  the  towels  about 
noon." 

Then  he  fell  on  his  bed  and  smothered  a  fit  of 
chuckling. 

Suddenly  the  mirth  died  out  of  him.  He  lay  still, 
conscious  of  a  pain  in  his  head  and  in  his  ankle  and 
somewhere  else  —  an  indeterminate  spot  deep  in  his 
being.  He  had  been  forbidden  to  see  the  girl  who  ran 
away  out  into  the  night  to  look  at  the  stars,  the  girl 
who  had  not  laughed  at  his  attempt  to  describe  the 
white  ecstasy  of  the  winter  moon.  He  had  frightened 
her  —  disgusted  her.  He  must  have  been  more  drunk 
than  he  imagined.  It  was  disgusting  —  and  so  hope 
less.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  leave  Millings. 

He  sat  up  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  and  let  his  hands 
hang  limply  down  between  his  knees.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  his  thoughts  were  like  a  wheel,  half-sub- 


THE  BAWLING-OUT  55 

merged  in  running  water.  The  wheel  went  round  rap 
idly,  plunging  in  and  out  of  his  consciousness.  Hardly 
had  he  grasped  the  meaning  of  one  half  when  it  went 
under  and  another  blur  of  moving  spokes  emerged. 
Something  his  father  had  said,  for  instance,  now 
began  to  pass  through  his  mind  .  .  .  "I've  got  my 
plans  for  her"  .  .  .  Dickie  tried  to  stop  the  turning 
wheel  because  this  speech  gave  him  a  distinct  feeling 
of  anger  and  alarm.  By  an  effort  of  his  will,  he  held 
it  before  his  contemplation  .  .  .  What  possible  plans 
could  Sylvester  have  for  Sheila?  Did  she  understand 
his  plans?  Did  she  approve  of  them?  She  was  so  young 
and  small,  with  that  sad,  soft  mouth  and  those  shin 
ing,  misty  eyes.  Dickie,  with  almost  a  paternal  air, 
shook  his  ruffled  head.  He  shut  his  eyes  so  that  the 
long  lashes  stood  out  in  little  points.  A  vision  of  those 
two  faces  —  Sheila's  so  gleaming  fair  and  open,  Syl 
vester's  so  dark  and  shut  —  stood  there  to  be  com 
pared.  Her  guardian,  indeed ! 

Dickie  dressed  slowly  and  dragged  himself  down 
to  the  desk,  where  very  soberly  and  sadly  he  gave 
the  key  of  the  linen  room  to  Mary.  Then  he  sat  down, 
turned  on  the  Victor,  and  lit  a  cigarette.  The  "Du- 
luth  folks"  had  gone  without  any  assistance  from 
him.  There  was  nothing  to  do.  It  occurred  to  Dickie, 
all  at  once,  that  in  Millings  there  was  always  nothing 
to  do.  Nothing,  that  is,  for  him  to  do.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  he  did  n't  like  Millings.  Perhaps  that  was  what 
was  wrong  with  him. 


56  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

The  Victor  was  playing: 

"Here  comes  Tootsie, 
Play  a  little  music  on  the  band. 
Here  comes  Tootsie, 
Tootsie,  you  are  looking  simply  grand. 
Play  a  little  tune  on  the  piccolo  and  flutes, 
The  man  who  wrote  the  rag  wrote  it  especially  for  Toots. 
Here  comes  Tootsie  —  play  a  little  music  on  the  band." 

On  the  last  nasal  note,  the  door  of  The  Aura  flew 
open  and  a  resplendent  figure  crossed  the  chocolate- 
colored  varnish  of  the  floor.  Tootsie  herself  was  not 
more  "simply  grand."  This  was  a  young  man,  per 
haps  it  would  be  more  descriptive  to  say  the  young 
man  that  accompanies  the  young  woman  on  the  cover 
of  the  average  American  magazine.  He  had  —  a  nose, 
a  chin,  a  beautiful  mouth,  large  brown  eyes,  wavy 
chestnut  hair,  a  ruddy  complexion,  and,  what  is  not 
always  given  to  the  young  man  on  the  cover,  a  deep 
and  generous  dimple  in  the  ruddiest  part  of  his  right 
cheek.  He  was  dressed  in  the  latest  suit  produced  by 
Schaffner  and  Marx;  he  wore  a  tie  of  variegated  silk 
which,  like  Browning's  star,  "dartled"  now  red,  now 
blue.  The  silk  handkerchief,  which  protruded  care 
fully  from  his  breast  pocket,  also  "dartled."  So  did 
the  socks.  One  felt  that  the  heart  of  this  young  man 
matched  his  tie  and  socks.  It  was  resplendent  with 
the  vanity  and  hopefulness  and  illusions  of  twenty- 
two  years. 

The  large,  dingy,  chocolate-colored  lobby  became 
suddenly  a  background  to  Mr.  James  Greely,  cashier 


THE  BAWLING-OUT  57 

of  the  Millings  National  Bank,  and  the  only  child 
of  its  president. 

Upon  the  ruffled  and  rumpled  Dickie  he  smiled 
pleasantly,  made  a  curious  gesture  with  his  hand  — 
they  both  belonged  to  the  Knights  of  Sagittarius  and 
the  Fire  Brigade  —  and  came  to  lean  upon  the  desk. 

"Holiday  at  the  bank  this  morning,"  he  said,  "in 
honor  of  Dad's  wedding-anniversary.  We're  giving 
a  dance  to-night  in  the  Hall.  Want  to  come,  Dickie?  " 

"No,"  said  Dickie.  "I  hurt  my  ankle  last  night  on 
the  icy  pavement.  And  anyhow  I  can't  dance.  And  I 
sort  of  find  girls  kind  of  tiresome." 

"That's  too  bad.  I'm  sure  sorry  for  you,  Hudson. 
Particularly  as  I  came  here  just  for  the  purpose  of 
handing  you  over  the  cutest  little  billy-doo  you  ever 
saw." 

He  drew  out  of  his  pocket  an  envelope  and  held 
it  away  from  Dickie. 

"You 're  trying  to  job  me,  Jim,"  -  but  Dickie  had 
his  head  coaxingly  on  one  side  and  his  face  was  pink. 

"I'll  give  it  to  you  if  you  can  guess  the  sender." 

"Babe?" 

"Wrong." 

"Girlie?" 

"Well,  sir,  it  ain't  Girlie's  fist  —  not  the  fist  she 
uses  when  she  drops  me  billy-doos." 

Dickie's  eyes  fell.  He  turned  aside  in  his  chair  and 
stopped  the  grinding  of  the  graphophone.  He  made 
no  further  guess.  Jim,  with  his  dimple  deepening, 


58  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

tossed  the  small  paper  into  the  air  and  caught  it 
again  deftly. 

"It's  from  the  young  lady  from  Noo  York  who's 
helping  Mrs.  Hudson,"  he  said.  "I  guess  she's  kind 
of  wishful  for  a  beau.  She 's  not  much  of  a  looker 
Girlie  tells  me." 

"Have  n't  you  met  her  yet,  Jim?"  Dickie's  hands 
were  in  his  pockets,  but  his  eyes  followed  the  gyra 
tions  of  the  paper. 

"No.  Ain't  that  a  funny  thing,  too?  Seems  like  I 
never  get  round  to  it.  I  just  saw  her  peeping  at  me 
one  day  through  the  parlor  curtains  while  I  was  say 
ing  sweet  nothings  to  Girlie  on  the  porch.  I  guess  she 
was  kind  of  in-ter-ested.  She's  skinny  and  pale, 
Girlie  says.  Your  mother  has  n't  got  any  use  for  her. 
I  bet  you,  it  won't  be  long  before  she  makes  tracks 
back  to  Noo  York,  Dickie.  Girlie  says  she  won't  be 
lingering  on  here  much  longer.  Too  much  competi 
tion." 

Jim  handed  the  note  to  Dickie,  who  had  listened 
to  this  speech  with  his  seven-year-old  expression.  He 
made  no  comment,  but  silently  unfolded  Sheila's 
note. 

The  writing  itself  was  like  her,  slender  and  fine  and 
straight,  a  little  reckless,  daintily  desperate.  That 
"I,"  now,  on  the  white  paper  might  be  Sheila  skim 
ming  across  the  snow. 

My  dear  Dickie  —  somehow  I  can't  call  you  "Mr.  Hud 
son  "  —  I  am  so  terribly  sorry  about  the  way  I  acted  to 


THE  BAWLING-OUT  59 

you  last  night.  I  don't  know  why  I  was  so  foolish.  I  have 
tried  to  explain  to  your  father  that  you  did  nothing  and 
said  nothing  to  frighten  me,  that  you  were  very  polite  and 
kind,  but  I  am  afraid  he  does  n't  quite  understand.  I  hope 
he  won't  be  very  cross  with  you,  because  it  was  all  my 
fault  —  no,  not  quite  all,  because  I  think  you  ought  n't  to 
have  followed  me.  I  'in  sure  you're  sorry  that  you  did.  But 
it  was  a  great  deal  my  fault,  so  I  'm  writing  this  to  tell  you 
that  I  was  n't  really  frightened  nor  very  angry.  Just  sorry 
and  disappointed.  Because  I  thought  you  were  so  very  nice. 
And  not  like  Millings.  And  you  liked  the  mountains  better 
than  the  town.  I  wanted  —  I  still  want  —  you  to  be  my 
friend.  For  I  do  need  a  friend  here,  dreadfully.  Will  you 
come  to  see  me  some  afternoon?  I  hope  you  did  n't  hurt 
yourself  when  you  slipped  on  those  icy  steps. 

Sincerely 

SHEILA  ARUNDEL 

Dickie  put  the  note  into  his  pocket  and  looked 
tmseeingly  at  Jim.  Jim  was  turning  up  the  bottoms 
of  his  trousers  preparing  to  go. 

"So  you  won't  come  to  our  dance?"  he  asked 
straightening  himself,  more  ruddy  than  ever. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Dickie  slowly  and  indifferently, 
"I  would  n't  wonder  if  I  would." 


CHAPTER  VII 

DISH-WASHING 

ON  that  night,  while  all  Millings  was  preparing  itself 
tor  the  Greelys'  dance,  while  Dickie,  bent  close  to 
his  cracked  mirror,  was  tying  his  least  crumpled  tie 
with  not  too  steady  fingers,  while  Jim  was  applying 
to  his  brown  crest  a  pomade  sent  to  him  by  a  girl 
in  Cheyenne,  while  Babe  was  wondering  anxiously 
whether  green  slippers  could  be  considered  a  match 
-or  a  foil  to  a  dress  of  turquoise  blue,  while  Girlie 
touched  her  cream-gold  hair  with  cream-padded  fin 
ger-tips,  Sheila  Arundel  prowled  about  her  room  with 
hot  anger  and  cold  fear  in  her  heart. 

Nothing,  perhaps,  in  all  this  mysterious  world  is 
so  inscrutable  a  mystery  as  the  mind  of  early  youth. 
It  crawls,  the  beetle  creature,  in  a  hard  shell,  hiding 
the  dim,  inner  struggle  of  its  growing  wings,  moving 
numbly  as  if  in  a  torpid  dream.  It  has  forgotten  the 
lively  grub  stage  of  childhood,  and  it  cannot  foresee 
the  dragon-fly  adventure  just  ahead.  This  blind, 
dumb,  numb,  imprisoned  thing,  an  irritation  to  the 
nerves  of  every  one  who  has  to  deal  with  it,  suffers. 
First  it  suffers  darkly  and  dimly  the  pain  growth,  and 
then  it  suffers  the  sharp  agony  of  a  splitting  shell, 
the  dazzling  wounds  of  light,  the  torture  of  first  mov 
ing  its  feeble  wings.  It  drags  itself  from  its  shell,  it 


DISH-WASHING  61 

clings  to  its  perch,  it  finds  itself  born  anew  into  the 
world. 

When  Sheila  had  left  the  studio  with  Sylvester,  she 
was  not  yet  possessed  of  wings.  Now,  the  shell  was 
cracking,  the  dragon-fly  adventure  about  to  begin. 
To  a  changed  world,  changed  stars  —  the  heavens 
above  and  the  earth  beneath  were  strange  to  her  that 
night. 

It  had  begun,  this  first  piercing  contact  of  reality, 
rudely  enough.  Mrs.  Hudson  had  helped  to  split  the 
protecting  shell  which  had  saved  Sheila's  growing 
dreams.  Perhaps  "Momma"  had  her  instructions, 
perhaps  it  was  only  her  own  disposition  left  by  her 
knowing  husband  to  do  his  trick  for  him.  Sheila  had 
not  overstated  the  unhappiness  that  Mrs.  Hudson's 
evident  dislike  had  caused  her.  In  fact,*she  had  greatly 
understated  it.  From  the  first  moment  at  the  station, 
when  the  hard  eyes  had  looked  her  over  and  the  harsh 
voice  had  asked  about  "the  girl's  trunk,"  Sheila's 
sensitiveness  had  begun  to  suffer.  It  was  not  easy, 
even  with  Babe's  good-humored  help,  to  go  down 
into  the  kitchen  and  submit  to  Mrs.  Hudson's  hector 
ing.  "Momma"  had  all  the  insolence  of  the  under 
dog.  Of  her  daughters,  as  of  her  husband,  she  was 
very  much  afraid.  They  all  bullied  her,  Babe  with 
noisy,  cheerful  effrontery  —  "sass"  Sylvester  called 
it  —  and  Girlie  with  a  soft,  unyielding  tyranny  that 
had  the  smothering  pressure  of  a  large  silk  pillow. 
Girlie  was  tall  and  serious  and  beautiful,  the  proud 


62  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

possessor  of  what  Millings  called  "a  perfect  form." 
She  was  inexpressibly  slow  and  untidy,  vain  and  ig 
norant  and  self-absorbed.  At  this  time  her  whole 
being  was  centered  upon  the  attentions  of  Jim  Greely, 
with  whom  she  was  "keeping  company."  With  Jim 
Greely  in  her  mind,  she  had  looked  Sheila  over,  thin 
and  weary  Sheila  in  her  shabby  black  dress,  and  had 
decided  that  here  no  danger  threatened.  Nevertheless 
she  did  not  take  chances.  Sheila  had  been  in  Millings 
a  fortnight  and  had  not  met  the  admirable  Jim.  Her 
attempt  that  morning  to  send  the  note  to  Dickie  by 
Jim  was  exactly  the  action  that  led  to  the  painful 
splitting  of  her  shell. 

She  had  seen  from  her  window  Sylvester's  depar 
ture  after  breakfast.  There  was  something  in  his  grim, 
angular  figure,  moving  carefully  over  the  icy  pave 
ment  in  the  direction  of  the  hotel,  that  gave  her  a 
pang  for  Dickie.  She  was  sure  that  Hudson  was  going 
to  be  very  disagreeable  in  spite  of  her  attempt  to 
soften  his  anger.  And  she  was  sorry  that  Dickie,  with 
his  odd,  wistful,  friendly  face  and  his  eyes  so  wide 
and  youthful  and  apologetic  for  their  visions,  should 
think  that  she  was  angry  or  disgusted.  She  wrote  her 
letter  in  a  little  glow  of  rescue,  and  was  proud  of  the 
tact  of  that  reference  to  his  "fall  down  the  steps"  — 
for  she  reasoned  that  the  self-esteem  of  any  boy  of 
nineteen  must  suffer  poignantly  over  the  memory  of 
being  knocked  down  by  his  father  before  the  eyes  of  a 
strange  girl.  She  wrote  her  note  and  ran  down  the 


DISH-WASHING  63 

stairs,  then  stopped  to  wonder  how  she  could  get  it 
promptly  to  Dickie.  It  was  intended  as  a  poultice  to 
be  applied  after  the  "bawling-out,"  and  she  could 
not  very  well  take  it  to  him  herself.  She  knew  that 
he  worked  in  the  hotel,  and  the  hotel  was  just  around 
the  corner.  All  that  was  needed  was  a  messenger. 

She  was  standing,  pink  of  cheek  and  vague  of  eye, 
fingering  her  apron  like  a  cottage  child  and  nibbling 
at  the  corner  of  her  envelope,  the  light  from  a  window 
on  the  stairs  falling  on  the  jewel-like  polish  of  her  hair, 
when  Girlie  opened  the  door  of  the  "parlor"  and 
came  out  into  the  hall.  Girlie  saw  her  and  half-closed 
the  door.  Her  lazy  eyes,  as  reflective  and  receptive 
and  inexpressive  as  small  meadow  pools  under  a  sum 
mer  sky,  rested  upon  Sheila.  In  the  parlor  a  pleasant 
baritone  voice  was  singing, 

"Treat  me  nice,  Miss  Mandy  Jane, 
Treat  me  nice. 

Don't  you  know  I'se  not  to  blame, 
Lovers  all  act  just  the  same, 
Treat  me  nice  ..." 

Girlie's  fingers  tightened  on  the  doorknob. 

"What  do  you  want,  Sheila?"  she  asked,  and  into 
the  slow,  gentle  tones  of  her  voice  something  had 
crept,  something  sinuous  and  subtle,  something  that 
slid  into  the  world  with  Lilith  for  the  eternal  torment 
of  earth's  daughters. 

"I  want  to  send  this  note  to  your  brother,"  said 
Sheila  with  the  simplicity  of  the  aristocrat.  "Is  that 
Mr.  Greely?  Is  he  going  past  the  hotel?'" 


64  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

She  took  a  step  toward  Jim,  but  Girlie  held  out  her 
soft  long  hand. 

"Give  it  to  me.  I'll  ask  him." 

Sheila  surrendered  the  note. 

"You'd  better  get  back  to  the  dishes,"  said  Girlie 
over  her  shoulder.  "Momma's  kind  of  rushed  this 
morning.  She's  helping  Babe  with  her  party  dress.  I 
would  n't  'a'  put  in  my  time  writing  notes  to  Dickie 
to-day  if  I'd  'a'  been  you.  Sort  of  risky." 

She  slid  in  through  the  jealous  door  and  Sheila  hur 
ried  along  the  hall  to  the  kitchen  where  there  was  an 
angry  clash  and  clack  of  crockery. 

The  kitchen  was  furnished  almost  entirely  with 
blue-flowered  oilcloth;  the  tables  were  covered  with 
it,  the  floor  was  covered  with  it,  the  shelves  were 
draped  in  it.  Cold  struck  up  through  the  shining, 
clammy  surface  underfoot  so  that  while  Sheila's  face 
burned  from  the  heat  of  the  stove  her  feet  were  icy. 
The  back  door  was  warped  and  let  in  a  current  of 
frosty  air  over  its  sill,  a  draught  that  circled  her  an 
kles  like  cold  metal.  On  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  "Momma"  had  placed  an  enormous  tin  dish- 
pan  piled  high  with  dirty  dishes,  over  which  she  was 
pouring  the  contents  of  the  kettle.  Steam  rose  in 
clouds,  half-veiling  her  big,  fierce  face  which,  seen 
through  holes  in  the  vapor,  was  like  that  of  a  hand 
some,  vulgar  witch. 

Through  the  steam  she  shot  at  Sheila  a  cruel  look. 
"Are  n't  you  planning  to  do  any  work  to-day, 


DISH-WASHING  65 

Sheila?"  she  asked  in  her  voice  of  harsh,  monot 
onous  accents.  "Here  it's  nine  o'clock  and  I  ain't 
been  able  to  do  a  stroke  to  Babe's  dress.  I  dunno  what 
you  was  designed  for  in  this  house  —  an  ornament 
on  the  parlor  mantel,  I  guess." 

Sheila's  heart  suffered  one  of  the  terrible  swift 
enlargements  of  angry  youth.  It  seemed  to  fill  her 
chest  and  stop  her  breath,  forcing  water  into  her  eyes. 
She  could  not  speak,  went  quickly  up  and  took  the 
kettle  from  "Momma's"  red  hand. 

The  table  at  which  dish-washing  was  done,  was 
inconveniently  high.  When  the  big  dishpan  with  its 
piled  dishes  topped  it,  Sheila's  arms  and  back  were 
strained  over  her  work.  She  usually  pulled  up  a  box 
on  which  she  stood,  but  now  she  went  to  work  blindly, 
her  teeth  clenched,  her  flexible  red  lips  set  close  to 
cover  them.  The  Celtic  fire  of  her  Irish  blood  gave 
her  eyes  a  sort  of  phosphorescent  glitter.  "Momma" 
looked  at  her. 

"Don't  show  temper!"  she  said.  "What  were  you 
doin'?  Upstairs  work?" 

"I  was  writing  a  letter,"  said  Sheila  in  a  low  voice, 
beginning  to  wash  the  plates  and  shrinking  at  the 
pain  of  scalding  water. 

"Hmp!  Writing  letters  at  this  hour!  One  of  your 
friends  back  East?  I  thought  it  was  about  time  some 
body  was  looking  you  up.  What  do  your  acquaint 
ance  think  of  you  comin'  West  with  Sylly  ?  " 

Now  that  she  was  at  liberty  to  put  a  "stroke/'  of 


66  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

work  on  Babe's  dress,  "Momma"  seemed  in  no  par 
ticular  hurry  to  do  so.  She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen  wrapping  her  great  bony  arms  in  her  checked 
apron  and  staring  at  Sheila.  Her  eyes  were  like  Girl 
ie's  turned  to  stone,  as  blank  and  blind  as  living  eyes 
can  be. 

Sheila  did  not  answer.  She  was  white  and  her  hands 
shook. 

"Hmp!"  said  "Momma"  again.  "We  are  n't  goin' 
to  talk  about  our  acquaintance,  are  we?  Well,  some 
folks'  acquaintance  don't  bear  talkin'  about;  they're 
either  too  fine  or  they  ain't  the  kind  that  gets  into 
decent  conversation."  She  walked  away. 

Sheila  did  her  work,  holding  her  anger  and  her 
misery  away  from  her,  refusing  to  look  at  them,  to 
analyze  their  cause.  It  was  a  very  busy  day.  The  help 
Babe  usually  gave,  and  "Momma's"  more  effectual 
assistance,  were  not  to  be  had.  Sheila  cleaned  up  the 
kitchen,  swept  the  dining-room,  set  the  table  and 
cooked  the  supper.  Her  exquisite  French  omelette 
and  savory  baked  tomatoes  were  reviled.  The  West 
knows  no  cooking  but  its  own,  and,  like  all  victims 
of  uneducated  taste,  it  prefers  the  familiar  bad  to 
the  unfamiliar  good. 

"You've  spoiled  a  whole  can  of  tomatoes,"  said 
Babe. 

Sylvester  laughed  good-humoredly :  "Oh,  well,  Miss 
Sheila,  you  '11  learn ! "  This,  to  Sheila,  whose  omelette 
had  been  taught  her  by  Mimi  Lolotte  and  whose 


DISH-WASHING  67 

baked  tomatoes,  delicately  flavored  with  onion,  were 
something  to  dream  about.  And  she  had  toasted  the 
bread  golden  brown  and  buttered  it,  and  she  had 
made  a  delectable  vegetable  soup!  She  had  never 
before  been  asked  to  cook  a  meal  at  Number  18  Cot- 
tonwood  Avenue  and  she  was  eager  to  please  Syl 
vester.  His  comment,  "You'll  learn,"  fairly  took 
her  breath.  She  would  not  sit  down  with  them  at 
the  table,  but  hurried  back  into  the  kitchen,  put 
her  scorched  cheek  against  some  cold  linoleum,  and 
cried. 

By  the  time  dinner  was  over  and  more  dishes  ready 
to  be  washed,  the  cook's  wounded  pride  was  under 
control.  Her  few  tears  had  left  no  marks  on  her  face. 
Babe,  helping  her,  did  not  even  know  that  there  had 
been  a  shower. 

Babe  was  excited;  her  chewing  was  more  energetic 
even  than  usual.  It  smacked  audibly. 

"Say,  Sheila,  wot '11  you  wear  to-night?"  she  yelled 
above  the  clatter. 

"Wear?"  repeated  Sheila. 

"To  the  dance,  you  silly!  What  did  you  think  I 
meant  —  to  bed? " 

Sheila's  tired  pallor  deepened  a  little.  "I  am  not 
going  to  the  dance." 

"Not  going?"  Babe  put  down  a  plate.  "What  do 
you  mean?  Of  course  you're  going!  You've  gotta  go. 
Say  —  Momma,  Pap,  Girlie"  -  she  ran,  at  a  sort  of 
sliding  gallop  across  the  oilcloth  through  the  swinging 


door  into  the  dining-room  —  "will  you  listen  to  this? 
Sheila  says  she's  not  going  to  the  dance! " 

"Well,"  said  "Momma"  audibly,  "she'd  better. 
I'm  agoin'  to  put  out  the  fires,  and  the  house '11  be 
about  12  below." 

Sylvester  murmured,  "Oh,  we  must  change  that." 

And  Girlie  said  nothing. 

"Well,"  vociferated  Babe.  "I  call  it  too  mean  for 
words.  I've  just  set  my  heart  on  her  meeting  some  of 
the  folks  and  getting  to  know  Millings.  She's  been 
here  a  whole  two  weeks  and  she  has  n't  met  a  single 
fellow  but  Dickie,  and  he  don't  count,  and  she  has  n't 
even  got  friendly  with  any  of  the  girls.  And  I  wanted 
her  to  see  one  of  our  real  swell  affairs.  Why  —  just 
for  the  credit  of  Millings,  she 's  gotta  go." 

"Why  fuss  her  about  it,  if  she  don't  want  to?" 
Girlie's  soft  voice  was  poured  like  oil  on  the  troubled 
billows  of  Babe's  outburst. 

"I'll  see  to  her,"  Sylvester's  chair  scraped  the  floor 
as  he  rose.  "I  know  how  to  manage  girls.  Trust 
Poppa!" 

He  pushed  through  the  door,  followed  by  Babe. 
Sheila  looked  up  at  him  helplessly.  She  had  her  box 
under  her  feet,  and  so  was  not  entirely  hidden  by  the 
dishpan.  She  drew  up  her  head  and  faced  him. 

"Mr.  Hudson,"  she  began  —  "please!  I  can't  go 
to  a  dance.  You  know  I  can't  —  '' 

"Nonsense!"  said  Pap.  "In  the  bright  lexicon  of 
youth  there's  no  such  word  as  'can't.'  Say,  girl,  you 


DISH-WASHING  69 

can  and  you  must.  I  won't  have  Babe  crying  her  eyes 
out  and  myself  the  most  unpopular  man  in  Millings. 
Say,  leave  your  dishes  and  go  up  and  put  on  your  best 
duds." 

"That's  talking,"  commented  Babe. 

In  the  dining-room  "Momma"  said,  "Hmp!"  and 
Girlie  was  silent. 

Sheila  looked  at  her  protector.  "But,  you  see,  Mr. 
Hudson,  I  —  I  —  it  was  only  a  month  ago  —  "  She 
made  a  gesture  with  her  hands  to  show  him  her  black 
dress,  and  her  lips  trembled. 

Pap  walked  round  to  her  and  patted  her  shoulder. 
"I  know,"  he  said.  "I  savvy.  I  get  you,  little  girl. 
But,  say,  it  won't  do.  You've  got  to  begin  to  live 
again  and  brighten  up.  You're  only  seventeen  and 
that's  no  age  for  mourning,  no,  nor  moping.  You  must 
learn  to  forget,  at  least,  that  is"  —  for  he  saw  the 
horrified  pain  of  her  eyes  —  "that  is,  to  be  happy 
again.  Yes'm.  Happiness  —  that's  got  to  be  your 
middle  name.  Now,  Miss  Sheila,  as  a  favor  to  me!" 

Sheila  put  up  both  her  hands  and  pushed  his  from 
her  shoulder.  She  ran  from  him  past  Babe  into  the 
dining-room,  where,  as  she  would  have  sped  by, 
"Momma"  caught  her  by  the  arm. 

"If  you  're  not  aimin'  to  please  him,"  said 
"Momma"  harshly,  "wot  are  you  here  for?" 

Sheila  looked  at  her  unseeingly,  pulled  herself  away, 
and  went  upstairs  on  wings.  In  her  room  the  tumult, 
held  down  all  through  the  ugly,  cluttered,  drudging 


70  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

day,  broke  out  and  had  its  violent  course.  She  flew 
about  the  room  or  tossed  on  the  bed,  sobbing  and 
whispering  to  herself.  Her  wound  bled  freely  for  the 
first  time  since  it  had  been  given  her  by  death.  She 
called  to  her  father,  and  her  heart  writhed  in  the  grim 
talons  of  its  loneliness.  That  was  her  first  agony  and 
then  came  the  lesser  stings  of  "Momma's"  insults, 
and  at  last,  a  fear.  An  incomprehensible  fear.  She 
began  to  doubt  the  wisdom  of  her  Western  venture. 
She  began  to  be  terrified  at  her  situation.  All  about 
her  lay  a  frozen  world,  a  wilderness,  so  many  thou 
sand  miles  from  anything  that  she  and  her  father  had 
ever  known.  And  in  her  pocket  there  was  no  penny 
for  rescue  or  escape.  Over  her  life  brooded  powerfully 
Sylvester  Hudson,  with  his  sallow  face  and  gentle, 
contemplative  eyes.  He  had  brought  her  to  his  home. 
Surely  that  was  an  honorable  and  generous  deed.  He 
had  given  her  over  to  the  care  and  protection  of  his 
wife  and  daughters.  But  why  did  n't  Mrs.  Hudson 
like  it?  Why  did  she  tighten  her  lips  and  pull  her  nos 
trils  when  she  looked  at  her  helper?  And  what  was 
the  sinister,  inner  meaning  of  those  two  speeches  .  .  . 
about  the  purpose  of  her  being  in  the  house  at  all? 
"An  ornament  on  the  parlor  mantel"  .  .  .  "aiming 
to  please  him  .  .  ."Of  the  existence  of  a  sinister,  inner 
meaning,  "Momma's"  voice  and  look  left  no  doubt. 
Something  was  wrong.  Something  was  hideously 
wrong.  And  to  whom  might  she  go  for  help  or  for  ad 
vice?  As  though  to  answer  her  question  came  a  foot- 


DISH-WASHING  71 

step  on  the  stair.  It  was  a  slow,  not  very  heavy  step. 
It  came  to  her  door  and  there  followed  a  sharp  but 
gentle  rap. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  Sheila.  And  suddenly  she  felt 
very  weak. 

"It's  Pap.  Open  your  door,  girl." 

She  hesitated.  Her  head  seemed  to  go  round.  Then 
she  obeyed  his  gentle  request. 

Pap  walked  into  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ARTISTS 

PAP  closed  the  door  carefully  behind  him  before  he 
looked  at  Sheila.  At  once  his  face  changed  to  one  of 
deep  concern. 

"Why,  girl!  What's  happened  to  you?  You  got  no 
call  to  feel  like  that!" 

He  went  over  to  her  and  took  her  limp  hand.  She 
half  turned  away.  He  patted  the  hand. 

"Why,  girl!  This  isn't  very  pleasant  for  me.  I 
aimed  to  make  you  happy  when  I  brought  you  out  to 
Millings.  I  kind  of  wanted  to  work  myself  into  your 
Poppa's  place,  kind  of  meant  to  make  it  up  to  you 
gome  way.  I  aimed  to  give  you  a  home.  *  Home,  sweet 
home,  there 's  no  place  like  home '  —  that  was  my 
motto.  And  here  you  are,  all  pale  around  the  gills  and 
tears  all  over  your  face  —  and,  say,  there 's  a  reg 
ular  pool  there  on  your  pillow.  Now,  now  —  "  he 
clicked  with  his  tongue.  "You're  a  bad  girl,  a  regular 
bad,  ungrateful  girl,  hanged  if  you  are  n't !  You  know 
what  I'd  do  to  you  if  you  were  as  young  as  you  are 
little  and  foolish  ?  Smack  you  —  good  and  plenty. 
But  I'm  not  agoin*  to  do  it,  no,  ma'am.  Don't  pull 
your  hand  away.  Smacking 's  not  in  my  line.  I  never 
smacked  my  own  children  in  their  lives,  except 
Dickie.  There  was  no  other  way  with  him.  He  was 


ARTISTS  73 

ornery.  You  come  and  set  down  here  in  the  big  chair 
and  I'll  pull  up  the  little  one  and  we'll  talk  things 
over.  Put  your  trust  in  me,  Miss  Sheila.  I  'm  all  heart. 
I  was  n't  called  'Pap'  for  nothing.  You  know  what  I 
am?  I'm  your  guardian.  Yes'm.  And  you  just  got  to 
make  up  your  mind  to  cast  your  care  upon  me,  as  the 
hymn  says.  Nary  worry  must  you  keep  to  yourself. 
Come  on  now,  kid,  out  with  it.  Get  it  off  your  chest." 

Sheila  had  let  him  put  her  into  the  big  creaking 
leather  chair.  She  sat  with  a  handkerchief  clenched  in 
both  her  hands,  upon  which  he,  drawing  up  the  other 
chair,  now  placed  one  of  his.  She  kept  her  head  down, 
for  she  was  ashamed  of  the  pale,  stained,  and  dis 
torted  little  face  which  she  could  not  yet  control. 

"Now,  then,  girl  .  .  .  Well,  if  you  won't  talk  to  me, 
I  '11  just  light  up  and  wait.  I  'm  a  patient  man,  I  am. 
Don't  hurry  yourself  any." 

He  withdrew  his  hand  and  took  out  a  cigar.  In  a 
moment  he  was  sitting  on  the  middle  of  his  spine,  his 
long  legs  sprawled  half  across  the  room,  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  his  head  on  the  chair-back  so  that  his 
chin  pointed  up  to  the  ceiling.  Smoke  rose  from  him 
as  from  a  volcano. 

Sheila  presently  laughed  uncertainly. 

"That's  better,"  he  mumbled  around  his  cigar . 

"I've  had  a  dreadful  day,"  said  Sheila. 

"You  won't  have  any  more  of  them,  my  dear," 
Sylvester  promised  quietly. 

She  looked  at  him  with  faint  hope. 


74  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

"Yes'm,  dish- washing 's  dead." 

"But  what  can  I  do,  then?" 

Hudson  nodded  his  head  slowly,  or,  rather,  he 
sawed  the  air  up  and  down  with  his  chin.  He  was 
still  looking  at  the  ceiling  so  that  Sheila  could  see  only 
the  triangle  beneath  his  jaw  and  the  dark,  stringy  neck 
above  his  collar. 

"I've  got  a  job  for  you,  girl  —  a  real  one." 

He  pulled  out  his  cigar  and  sat  up.  "You  remember 
what  I  told  you  the  other  night?" 

"About  my  being  a  —  a  —  beacon?  "  Sheila's  voice 
was  delicately  tinged  with  mockery.  So  was  her 
doubtful  smile. 

"Yes'm,"  he  said  seriously.  "Well,  that's  it." 

"What  does  a  beacon  do?"  she  asked. 

"It  burns.  It  shines.  It  looks  bright.  It  wears  the 
neatest  little  black  dress  with  a  frilly  apron  and  deep 
frilly  cuffs.  Say,  do  you  recollect  something  else  I  told 

you?" 

"I  remember  everything  you  told  me." 

"Well,  ma'am,  I  remember  everything  you  told  me. 
Somebody  said  she  was  grateful.  Somebody  said  she  'd 
do  anything  for  Pap.  Somebody  said  —  *  Try  me."1 

"I  meant  it,  Mr.  Hudson.  I  did  mean  it." 

"Do  you  mean  it  now?" 

"Yes.  I  —  I  owe  you  so  much.  You're  always  so 
very  kind  to  me.  And  I  behave  very  badly.  I  was 
hateful  to  you  this  evening.  And,  when  you  came  to 
my  door,  just  now,  I  was  —  I  was  scared" 


ARTISTS  75 

Pap  opened  his  eyes  at  her,  held  his  cigar  away 
from  him  and  laughed.  The  laugh  was  both  bitter  and 
amused. 

"Scared  of  Pap  Hudson?  You  geared?  But,  look-a- 
here,  girl,  what've  I  done  to  deserve  that?" 

He  sat  forward,  rested  his  chin  in  his  hand,  sup 
ported  by  an  elbow  on  his  crossed  knees  and  fixed  her 
with  gentle  and  reproachful  eyes. 

"Honest,  you  kind  of  make  me  feel  bad,  Miss 
Sheila." 

"I  am  dreadfully  sorry.  It  was  horrid  of  me.  I  only 
told  you  because  I  wanted  you  to  know  that  I  'm  not 
worth  helping.  I  don't  deserve  you  to  be  so  kind  to 
me.  I  —  I  must  be  disgustingly  suspicious." 

"Well!"  Sylvester  sighed.  "Very  few  folks  get  me. 
I  'm  kind  of  mis-understood.  I  'm  a  real  lonesome  sort 
of  man.  But,  honest,  Miss  Sheila,  I  thought  you  were 
my  friend.  I  don't  mind  telling  you,  you  Ve  hurt  my 
feelings.  That  shot  kind  of  got  me.  It's  stuck  into 
me." 

"I'm  horrid!"  Sheila's  eyes  were  wounded  with 
remorse. 

"Oh,  well,  I'm  not  expecting  understanding  any 
more." 

"Oh,  but  I  do  —  I  do  understand!"  she  said  ea 
gerly  and  she  put  her  hand  shyly  on  his  arm.  "I  think 
I  do  understand  you.  I'm  very  grateful.  I'm  very 
fond  of  you." 

"Ah!"  said  Sylvester  softly.  "That's  a  good  hear- 


76  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

ing!"  He  lifted  his  arm  with  Sheila's  hand  on  it  and 
touched  it  with  his  lips.  "You  got  me  plumb  stirred 
up,"  he  said  with  a  certain  huskiness.  "Well!"  She 
took  away  her  hand  and  he  made  a  great  show  of  re 
turning  to  common  sense.  "I  reckon  we  are  a  pretty 
good  pair  of  friends,  after  all.  But  you  must  n't  be 
scared  of  me,  Miss  Sheila.  That  does  hurt.  Let's  for 
get  you  told  me  that." 

"Yes  — please!" 

"  Well,  then  —  to  get  back  to  business.  Do  you 
recollect  a  story  I  told  you?" 

"A  story?  Oh,  yes  —  about  an  Englishman  —  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  That  Englishman  put  his  foot  on  the 
rail  and  stuck  his  glass  in  his  eye  and  set  his  tumbler 
down  empty.  And  he  looked  round  that  bar  of  mine, 
Miss  Sheila.  You  savvy,  he  'd  been  all  over  the  globe, 
that  feller,  and  I  should  say  his  ex-perience  of  bars 
was  —  some  —  and  he  said,  'Hudson,  it's  all  but  per 
fect.  It  only  needs  one  thing. ' ' 

This  time  Sheila  did  not  ask.  She  waited. 

"And  that's  something  we  have  in  our  country,' 
said  he."  Hudson  cleared  his  throat.  He  also  mois 
tened  his  lips.  He  was  very  apparently  excited.  He 
leaned  even  farther  forward,  tilting  on  the  front  legs 
of  his  chair  and  thrusting  his  face  close  to  Sheila's 
"'A  pretty  barmaid!1  said  he." 

There  was  a  profound  silence  in  the  small  room. 
The  runners  of  a  sleigh  scraped  the  icy  street  below, 
its  horses'  hoofs  cracked  noisily.  The  music  of  a  fiddle 


ARTISTS  77 

sounded  in  the  distance.  Babe's  voice  humming  a 
waltz  tune  rose  from  the  second  story. 

"A  barmaid?"  asked  Sheila  breathlessly.  She  got 
up  from  her  chair  and  walked  over  to  the  window. 
The  moon  was  already  high.  Over  there,  beckoning, 
stood  her  mountain  and  her  star.  It  was  all  so  shining 
and  pure  and  still. 

"  That's  what  you  want  me  to  be  —  your  barmaid?  " 

"  Yes'm,"  said  Sylvester  humbly.  "Don't  make  up 
your  mind  in  a  hurry,  Miss  Sheila.  Wait  till  I  tell  you 
more  about  it.  It's  —  it's  a  kind  of  dream  of  mine.  I 
think  it  'd  come  close  to  breaking  me  up  if  you  turned 
down  the  proposition.  The  Aura 's  not  an  ordin-ar-y 
bar  and  I'm  not  an  ordin-ar-y  man,  and,  say,  Miss 
Sheila,  you're  not  an  ordin-ar-y  girl." 

"  Is  that  why  you  want  me  to  work  in  your  sa 
loon?"  said  Sheila,  staring  at  the  star. 

"Yes'm.  That's  why.  Let  me  tell  you  that  I've 
searched  this  continent  for  a  girl  to  fit  my  ideal. 
That's  what  it  is,  girl  —  my  ideal.  That  bar  of  mine 
has  got  to  be  perfect.  It's  near  to  perfect  now.  I  want 
when  that  Englishman  comes  back  to  Millings  to 
hear  him  say,  'It's  perfect'  ...  no  'all  but,'  you 
notice.  Why,  miss,  I  could  'a'  got  a  hundred  ordin- 
ar-y  girls,  lookers  too.  The  world's  full  of  lookers." 

"Why  did  n't  you  offer  your —  'job'  to  Babe  or 
Girlie?" 

Sylvester  laughed.  "Well,  girl,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  did." 


78  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

"You  did?"  Sheila  turned  back  and  faced  him. 
There  was  plenty  of  color  in  her  cheeks  now.  Her 
narrow  eyes  were  widely  opened.  Astonishingly  large 
and  clear  they  were,  when  she  so  opened  them. 

"Yes'm."  Sylvester  glanced  aside  for  an  instant. 

"And  what  did  they  say?" 

"They  balked,"  Sylvester  admitted  calmly." They 
're  fine  girls,  Miss  Sheila.  And  they're  lookers.  But 
they  just  are  n't  quite  fine  enough.  They're  not 
artists,  like  your  Poppa  and  like  you  —  and  like 
me." 

Sheila  put  a  hand  up  to  her  cheek.  Her  eyes  came 
back  to  their  accustomed  narrowness  and  a  look  of 
doubt  stole  into  her  face. 

"Artists?" 

"Yes'm."  Sylvester  had  begun  to  walk  about. 
"Artists.  Why,  what's  an  artist  but  a  person  with  a 
dream  he  wants  to  make  real?  My  dream's  —  The 
Aura,  girl.  For  three  years  now"  -he  half-shut  his 
eyes  and  moved  his  arm  in  front  of  him  as  though  he 
were  putting  in  the  broad  first  lines  of  a  picture  - 
"I've  seen  that  girl  there  back  of  my  bar  —  shining 
and  good  and  fine  —  not  the  sort  of  a  girl  a  man  'd  be 
lookin'  for,  mind  you,  just  not  that!  A  girl  that  would 
sort  of  take  your  breath.  Say,  picture  it,  Sheila!"  He 
stood  by  her  and  pointed  it  out  as  though  he  showed 
her  a  view.  "You're  a  cowboy.  And  you  come  ridin' 
in,  bone-tired,  dusty,  with  a  thirst:  Well,  sir,  a  thirst 
in  your  throat  and  a  thirst  in  your  heart  and  a  thirst 


ARTISTS  79 

in  your  soul.  You're  wantin'  re-freshment.  For  your 
body  and  your  eyes  and  your  mind.  Well,  ma'am,  you 
tie  your  pony  up  there  and  you  push  open  those  doors 
and  you  push  'em  open  and  step  plumb  into  Para 
dise.  It 's  cool  in  there  —  I  'm  picturin'  a  July  evenin', 
Miss  Sheila  —  and  it's  quiet  and  it's  shining  clean. 
And  there 's  a  big  man  in  white  who 's  servin'  drinks 
—  cold  drinks  with  a  grand  smell.  That's  my  man 
Carthy.  He  keeps  order.  You  bet  you,  he  does  keep 
it  too.  And  beside  him  stands  a  girl.  Well,  she's  the 
kind  of  girl  you  —  the  cowboy  —  would  'a'  dreamed 
about,  lyin'  out  in  your  blanket  under  the  stars,  if 
you'd  'a'  knowed  enough  to  be  able  to  dream  about 
her.  After  you've  set  eyes  on  her,  you  don't  dream 
about  any  other  kind  of  girl.  And  just  seein'  her  there 
so  sweet  and  bright  and  dainty-like,  makes  a  different 
fellow  of  you.  Say,  goin'  into  that  bar  is  like  goin'  into 
church  and  havin'  a  jim-dandy  time  when  you  get 
there  —  which  is  something  the  churches  have  n't 
got  round  to  offerin'  yet  to  my  way  of  thinkin'.  Now, 
I  want  to  ask  you,  Miss  Sheila,  if  you've  got  red 
blood  in  your  veins  and  a  love  of  adventure  and  a 
wish  to  see  that  real  entertaining  show  we  call  'life'  — 
and  mighty  few  females  ever  get  a  glimpse  of  it  — 
and  if  you  Ve  acquired  a  feeling  of  gratitude  for  Pap 
and  if  you've  got  any  real  religion,  or  any  ambition 
to  play  a  part,  if  you  're  a  real  woman  that  wants  to 
be  an  in-spire-ation  to  men,  well,  ma'am,  I  ask  you, 
could  you  turn  down  a  chance  like  that?'? 


80  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

He  stood  away  a  pace  and  put  his  question  with  a 
lifted  forefinger. 

Sheila's  eyes  were  caught  and  held  by  his.  Again 
her  mind  seemed  to  be  fastened  to  his  will.  And  the 
blood  ran  quickly  in  her  veins.  Her  heart  beat.  She 
was  excited,  stirred.  He  had  seen  through  her  shell 
unerringly  as  no  one  else  in  all  her  life  had  seen.  He 
had  mysteriously  guessed  that  she  had  the  dangerous 
gift  of  adventure,  that  under  the  shyness  and  uncer 
tainty  of  inexperience  there  was  no  fear  in  her,  that 
she  was  one  of  those  that  would  rather  play  with  fire 
than  warm  herself  before  it.  Sheila  stood  there,  dis 
covered  and  betrayed.  He  had  played  upon  her  as 
upon  a  flexible  young  reed:  that  stop,  her  ambition, 
this,  her  romanticism,  that,  her  vanity,  the  fourth, 
her  gratitude,  the  fifth,  her  idealism,  the  sixth,  her 
recklessness.  And  there  was  this  added  urge  —  she 
must  stay  here  and  drudge  under  the  lash  of  "Mom 
ma's"  tongue  or  she  must  accept  this  strange,  this 
unimaginable  offer.  Again  she  opened  her  eyes  wider 
and  wider.  The  pupils  swallowed  up  the  misty  gray. 
Her  lips  parted. 

"I'll  do  it,"  she  said,  narrowed  her  eyes  and  shut 
her  mouth  tight.  With  such  a  look  she  might  have 
thrown  a  fateful  toss  of  dice. 

Sylvester  caught  her  hands,  pressed  them  up  to 
his  chest. 

"It's  a  promise,  girl?" 

"Yes." 


ARTISTS  81 

"God  bless  you!" 

He  let  her  go.  He  walked  on  air.  He  threw  open  the 
door. 

There  on  the  threshold  —  stood  "Momma." 

"I  kind  of  see,"  she  drawled,  "why  Sheila  don't 
take  no  interest  in  dancin' ! " 

"You're  wrong,"  said  Sheila  very  clearly.  "I  have 
been  persuaded.  I  am  going  to  the  dance." 

Sylvester  laughed  aloud.  "One  for  you,  Momma!" 
he  said.  "Come  on  down,  old  girl,  while  Miss  Sheila 
gets  into  her  party  dress.  Say,  Aura,  are  n't  you  goin* 
to  give  me  a  dance  to-night?" 

His  wife  looked  curiously  at  his  red,  excited  face. 
She  followed  him  in  silence  down  the  stairs. 

Sheila  stood  still  listening  to  their  descending  steps, 
then  she  knelt  down  beside  her  little  trunk  and  opened 
the  lid.  The  sound  of  the  fiddle  stole  hauntingly,  be 
seechingly,  tauntingly  into  her  consciousness.  There 
in  the  top  tray  of  her  trunk  wrapped  in  tissue  paper 
lay  the  only  evening  frock  she  had,  a  filmy  French 
dress  of  white  tulle,  a  Christmas  present  from  her 
father,  a  breath-taking,  intoxicating  extravagance. 
She  had  worn  it  only  once. 

It  was  with  the  strangest  feeling  that  she  took  it 
out.  It  seemed  to  her  that  the  Sheila  that  had  worn 
that  dress  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  SINGEING  OF  WINGS 

ALL  the  vitality  of  Millings  —  and  whatever  its  de 
ficiencies  the  town  lacked  nothing  of  the  splendor 
and  vigor  of  its  youth  —  throbbed  and  stamped  and 
shook  the  walls  of  the  Town  Hall  that  night.  To 
understand  that  dance,  it  is  necessary  to  remember 
that  it  took  place  on  a  February  night  with  the  ther 
mometer  at  zero  and  with  the  ground  five  feet  be 
neath  the  surface  of  the  snow.  There  were  men  and 
women  and  children,  too,  who  had  come  on  skis  and 
in  toboggans  for  twenty  miles  from  distant  ranches 
to  do  honor  to  the  wedding-anniversary  of  Greely 
and  his  wife. 

A  room  near  the  ballroom  was  reserved  for  babies, 
and  here,  early  in  the  evening,  lay  small  bundles  in 
helpless,  more  or  less  protesting,  rows,  their  needs 
attended  to  between  waltzes  and  polkas  by  father  or 
mother  according  to  the  leisure  of  the  parent  and  the 
nature  of  the  need.  One  infant,  whose  home  disci 
pline  was  not  up  to  the  requirements  of  this  event, 
refused  to  accommodate  himself  to  loneliness  and  so 
spent  the  evening  being  dandled,  first  by  father,  then 
by  mother,  in  a  chair  immediately  beside  the  big 
drum.  Whether  the  spot  was  chosen  for  the  purpose 
of  smothering  his  cries  or  enlivening  his  spirits  no- 


A  SINGEING  OF  WINGS  83 

body  cared  to  inquire.  Infants  in  the  Millings  and 
Hidden  Creek  communities,  where  certified  milk  and 
scientific  feeding  were  unknown,  were  treated  rather 
like  family  parasites  to  be  attended  to  only  when  the 
irritation  they  caused  became  acute.  They  were  not 
taken  very  seriously.  That  they  grew  up  at  all  was 
largely  due  to  their  being  turned  out  as  soon  as  they 
could  walk  into  an  air  that  buoyed  the  entire  nervous 
and  circulatory  systems  almost  above  the  need  of  any 
other  stimulant. 

The  dance  began  when  the  first  guests  arrived, 
which  on  this  occasion  was  at  about  six  o'clock,  and 
went  on  till  the  last  guest  left,  at  about  ten  the  next 
morning.  In  the  meantime  the  Greelys'  hospitality 
provided  every  variety  of  refreshment. 

When  Sheila  reached  the  Town  Hall,  crowded  be 
tween  Sylvester  and  joyous  Babe  in  her  turquoise 
blue  on  the  front  seat  of  the  Ford,  while  the  back  seat 
was  occupied  by  Girlie  in  scarlet  and  "Momma"  in 
purple  velveteen,  the  dance  was  well  under  way.  The 
Hudsons  came  in  upon  the  tumult  of  a  quadrille.  The 
directions,  chanted  above  the  din,  were  not  very  ex 
actly  heeded;  there  was  as  much  confusion  as  there 
was  mirth.  Sheila,  standing  near  Girlie's  elbow,  felt 
the  exhilaration  which  youth  does  feel  at  the  impact 
of  explosive  noise  and  motion,  the  stamping  of  feet, 
the  shouting,  the  loud  laughter,  the  music,  the  bound 
ing,  prancing  bodies:  savagery  in  a  good  humor, 
childhood  again,  but  without  the  painful  intensity 


84  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

of  childhood.  Sheila  wondered  just  as  any  debutante 
in  a  city  ballroom  wonders,  whether  she  would  have 
partners,  whether  she  would  have  "a  good  time." 
Color  came  into  her  face.  She  forgot  everything  ex 
cept  the  immediate  prospect  of  flattery  and  rhythmic 
motion. 

Babe  pounced  upon  a  young  man  who  was  shoul 
dering  his  way  toward  Girlie. 

"Say,  Jim,  meet  Miss  Arundel!  Gee!  I've  been 
wanting  you  two  to  get  acquainted." 

Sheila  held  out  her  hand  to  Mr.  James  Greely,  who 
took  it  with  a  surprised  and  dazzled  look. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  he  murmured,  and  the 
dimple  deepened  in  his  ruddy  right  cheek. 

He  turned  his  blushing  face  to  Girlie.  "Gee!  You 
look  great!"  he  said. 

She  was,  in  fact,  very  beautiful  —  a  long,  firm, 
round  body,  youthful  and  strong,  sheathed  in  a  skin 
of  cream  and  roses,  lips  that  looked  as  though  they 
had  been  used  for  nothing  but  the  tranquil  eating  of 
ripe  fruit,  eyes  of  unfathomable  serenity,  and  hair 
almost  as  soft  and  creamy  as  her  shoulders  and  her 
finger-tips.  Her  beauty  was  not  marred  to  Jim 
Greely's  eyes  by  the  fact  that  she  was  chewing  gum. 
Amongst  animals  the  only  social  poise,  the  only  true 
self-possession  and  absence  of  shyness  is  shown  by 
the  cud-chewing  cow.  She  is  diverted  from  fear  and 
soothed  from  self-consciousness  by  having  her  nerv 
ous  attention  distracted.  The  smoking  man  has  this 


A  SINGEING  OF  WINGS  85 

release,  the  knitting  woman  has  it.  Girlie  and  Babe 
had  it  from  the  continual  labor  of  their  jaws.  Every 
hope  and  longing  and  ambition  in  Girlie's  heart  cen 
tered  upon  this  young  man  now  complimenting  her, 
but  as  he  turned  to  her,  she  just  stood  there  and 
looked  up  at  him.  Her  jaws  kept  on  moving  slightly. 
There  was  in  her  eyes  the  minimum  of  human  in 
telligence  and  the  maximum  of  unconscious  animal 
invitation  —  a  blank,  defenseless  expression  of  — 
'Here  I  am.  Take  me."  As  Jim  Greely  expressed  the 
look:  "Girlie  makes  everything  easy.  She  don't  give 
a  fellow  any  discomfort  like  some  of  these  skittish 
girls  do.  She's  kind  of  home  folks  at  once." 

"We  can't  get  into  the  quadrille  now,"  said 
Jim,  "but  you'll  give  me  the  next,  won't  you, 
Girlie?" 

"Sure,  Jim,"  said  the  unsmiling,  rosy  mouth. 

Jim  moved  uneasily  on  his  patent-leather  feet.  He 
shot  a  sidelong  glance  at  Sheila. 

"Say,  Miss  Arundel,  may  I  have  the  next  after  .  .  . 
Meet  Mr.  Gates,"  he  added  spasmodically,  as  the 
hand  of  a  gigantic  friend  crushed  his  elbow. 

Sheila  looked  up  a  yard  or  two  of  youth  and  ac 
cepted  Mr.  Gates's  invitation  for  "the  next." 

The  head  at  the  top  of  the  tower  bent  itself  down 
to  her  with  a  snakelike  motion. 

"Us  fellows,"  it  said,  "have  been  aiming  to  give 
you  a  good  time  to-night." 

Sheila  was  relieved  to  find  him  within  hearing.  Her 


86  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

smile  dawned  enchantingly.  It  had  all  the  inevita 
bility  of  some  sweet  natural  event. 

"  That 's  very  good  of  —  you  fellows.  I  did  n't  know 
you  knew  that  there  was  such  a  person  as  —  as  me  in 
Millings." 

"You  bet  you,  we  knew.  Here  goes  the  waltz.  Do 
you  want  to  Castle  it?  I  worked  in  a  Yellowstone 
Park  Hotel  last  summer,  and  I'm  wise  on  dancing." 

Sheila  found  herself  stretched  ceilingwards.  She 
must  hold  one  arm  straight  in  the  air,  one  elbow  as 
high  as  she  could  make  it  go,  and  she  must  dance  on 
her  very  tip-toes.  Like  every  girl  whose  life  has  taken 
her  in  and  out  of  Continental  hotels,  she  could  dance, 
and  she  had  the  gift  of  intuitive  rhythm  and  of  yield 
ing  to  her  partner's  intentions  almost  before  they 
were  muscularly  expressed.  Mr.  Gates  felt  that  he 
was  dancing  with  moonlight,  only  the  figure  of  speech 
is  not  his  own. 

Girlie  in  the  arms  of  Jim  spoke  to  him  above  her 
rigid  chin.  Girlie  had  the  haughty  manner  of  dancing. 

"She's  not  much  of  a  looker,  is  she,  Jim?"  But 
the  pain  in  her  heart  gave  the  speech  an  audible 
edge. 

"She';3  not  much  of  anything,"  said  Jim,  who  had 
not  looked  like  the  young  man  on  the  magazine  cover 
for  several  busy  years  in  vain.  "She's  just  a  scrap." 

But  Girlie  could  not  be  deceived.  Sheila's  delicate, 
crystalline  beauty  pierced  her  senses  like  the  frosty 
beauty  of  a  winter  star:  her  dress  of  white  mist,  her 


A  SINGEING  OF  WINGS  87 

slender  young  arms,  her  long,  slim,  romantic  throat, 
the  finish  and  polish  of  her,  every  detail  done  lovingly 
as  if  by  a  master's  silver-pointed  pencil,  her  hair  so 
artlessly  simple  and  shining,  smooth  and  rippled 
under  the  lights,  the  strangeness  of  her  face!  Girlie 
told  herself  again  that  it  was  an  irregular  face,  that 
the  chin  was  not  right,  that  the  eyes  were  not  well- 
opened  and  lacked  color,  that  the  nose  was  odd,  defy 
ing  classification;  she  knew,  in  spite  of  the  rigid  ig 
norance  of  her  ideals,  that  these  things  mysteriously 
spelled  enchantment.  Sheila  was  as  much  more  beau 
tiful  than  anything  Millings  had  ever  seen  as  her 
white  gown  was  more  exquisite  than  anything  Mill 
ings  had  ever  worn.  It  was  a  work  of  art,  and  Sheila 
was,  also,  in  some  strange  sense,  a  work  of  art,  some 
thing  shaped  and  fashioned  through  generations, 
something  tinted  and  polished  and  retouched  by  race, 
something  mellowed  and  restrained,  something  bred. 
Girlie  did  not  know  why  the  white  tulle  frock,  abso 
lutely  plain,  shamed  her  elaborate  red  satin  with  its 
exaggerated  lines.  But  she  did  know.  She  did  not 
know  why  Sheila's  subtle  beauty  was  greater  than 
her  obvious  own.  But  she  did  know.  And  so  great  and 
bewildering  a  fear  did  this  knowledge  give  her  that, 
for  an  instant,  it  confused  her  wits. 

"She's  going  back  East  soon,"  she  said  sharply. 

"Is  she?"  Jim's  question  was  indifferent,  but  from 
that  instant  his  attention  wandered. 

When  he  took  the  small,  crushable  silken  partner 


88  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

into  his  arms  for  "the  next  after,"  a  one-step,  he  was 
troubled  by  a  sense  of  hurry,  by  that  desire  to  make 
the  most  of  his  opportunity  that  torments  the  reader 
of  a  "best-seller"  from  the  circulating  library. 

"Say,  Miss  Arundel,"  he  began,  looking  down  at 
the  smooth,  jewel-bright  head,  "you  have  n't  given 
Millings  a  square  deal." 

Sheila  looked  at  him  quizzically. 

"You  see,"  went  on  Jim,  "it's  winter  now.'* 

"Yes,  Mr.  Greely.  It  is  winter." 

"And  that's  not  our  best  season.  When  summer 
comes,  it's  awfully  pretty  and  it's  good  fun.  We  have 
all  sorts  of  larks  —  us  fellows  and  the  girls.  You  'd 
like  a  motor  ride,  would  n't  you?" 

"Not  especially,  thank  you,"  said  Sheila,  who 
really  at  times  deserved  the  Western  condemnation 
of  "ornery."  "I  don't  like  motors.  In  fact,  I  hate 
motors." 

Jim  swallowed  a  nervous  lump.  This  girl  was  not 
"home  folks."  She  made  him  feel  awkward  and  un 
couth.  He  tried  to  remember  that  he  was  Mr.  James 
Greely,  of  the  Millings  National  Bank,  and,  remem 
bering  at  the  same  time  something  that  the  girl  from 
Cheyenne  had  said  about  his  smile,  he  caught  Sheila's 
eye  deliberately  and  made  use  of  his  dimple. 

"What  do  you  like?"  he  asked.  "If  you  tell  me 
what  you  like,  I  —  I'll  see  that  you  get  it." 

"You're  very  powerful,  aren't  you?  You  sound 
like  a  fairy  godmother." 


A  SINGEING  OF  WINGS  89 

"You  look  like  a  fairy.  That's  just  what  you  do 
look  like." 

"I  like  horses  much  better  than  motors,"  said 
Sheila.  "I  thought  the  West  would  be  full  of  adorable 
little  ponies.  I  thought  you'd  ride  like  wizards,  buck 
ing  —  you  know." 

"Well,  I  can  ride.  But,  I  guess  you've  been  going 
to  the  movies  or  the  Wild  West  shows.  This  town 
must  seem  kind  of  dead  after  Noo  York." 

"I  hate  the  movies,"  said  Sheila  sweetly. 

"Say,  it  would  be  easy  to  get  a  pony  for  you  as 
soon  as  the  snow  goes.  I  sold  my  horse  when  Dad 
bought  me  my  Ford." 

"Sold  him?  Sold  your  own  special  horse!" 

"Well,  yes,  Miss  Arundel.  Does  that  make  you 
think  awfully  bad  of  me?" 

"Yes.  It  does.  It  makes  me  think  awfully  'bad*  of 
you.  If  I  had  a  horse,  I  'd  —  I  'd  tie  him  to  my  bed 
post  at  night  and  feed  him  on  rose-leaves  and  tie 
ribbons  in  his  mane." 

Jim  laughed,  delighted  at  her  childishness.  It 
brought  back  something  of  his  own  assurance. 

"I  don't  think  Pap  Hudson  would  quite  stand  for 
that,  would  he?  Seems  to  me  as  if  —  " 

But  here  his  partner  stopped  short,  turned  against 
his  arm,  and  her  face  shone  with  a  sudden  friendly 
sweetness  of  surprise.  "There's  Dickie!" 

She  left  Jim,  she  slipped  across  the  floor.  Dickie 
limped  toward  her.  His  face  was  white. 


90  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

"Dickie!  I'm  so  glad  you  came.  Somehow  I  did  n't 
expect  you  to  be  here.  But  you're  lame!  Then  you 
can't  dance.  What  a  shame.  After  Mr.  Greely  and  I 
have  finished  this,  could  you  sit  one  out  with  me?" 

"Yes'm,"  whispered  Dickie. 

He  was  not  as  inexpressive  as  it  might  seem  how 
ever.  His  face,  a  rather  startling  face  here  in  this 
crowded,  boisterous  room,  a  face  that  seemed  to  have 
come  in  out  of  the  night  bringing  with  it  a  quality 
of  eternal  childhood,  of  quaint,  half-forgotten  dreams 

—  his  face  was  very  expressive.  So  much  so,  that 
Sheila,  embarrassed,  went  back  almost  abruptly  to 
Jim.  Her  smile  was  left  to  bewilder  Dickie.  He  began 
to  describe  it  to  himself.  And  this  was  the  first  time 
a  woman  had  stirred  that  mysterious  trouble  in  his 
brain. 

"It's  not  like  a  smile  at  all,"  thought  Dickie,  the 
dancing  crowd  invisible  to  him;  "it's  like  something 

—  it's  —  what  is  it?  It's  as  if  the  wind  blew  it  into 
her  face  and  blew  it  out  again.  It  does  n't  come  from 
anywhere,  it  does  n't  seem  to  be  going  anywhere,  at 
least  not  anywhere  a  fellow  knows  ..."  Here  he  was 
rudely  joggled  by  a  passing  elbow  and  the  pain  of  his 
ankle  brought  a  sharp  "Damn!"  out  of  him.  He 
found  a  niche  to  lean  in,  and  he  watched  Sheila  and 
Jim.  He  found  himself  not  quite  so  overwhelmed  as 
usual  by  admiration  of  his  friend.  His  mood  was  even 
very  faintly  critical.  But,  as  the  dance  came  to  an 
end,  Dickie  fell  a  prey  to  base  anxiety.  How  would 


A  SINGEING  OF  WINGS  91 

"Poppa"  take  it  if  he,  Dickie,  should  be  seen  sitting 
out  a  dance  with  Miss  Arundel?  Dickie  was  pro 
foundly  afraid  of  his  father.  It  was  a  fear  that  he  had 
never  been  allowed  the  leisure  to  outgrow.  Sylvester 
with  torture  of  hand  and  foot  and  tongue  had  fos 
tered  it.  And  Dickie's  childhood  had  lingered  pain 
fully  upon  him.  He  could  not  outgrow  all  sorts  of 
feelings  that  other  fellows  seemed  to  shed  with  their 
short  trousers.  He  was  afraid  of  his  father,  physically 
and  morally;  his  very  nerves  quivered  under  the  look 
of  the  small  brown  eyes. 

Nevertheless,  as  Sheila  thanked  Jim  for  her  waltz, 
her  elbow  was  touched  by  a  cold  finger. 

"Here  I  am,"  said  Dickie.  He  had  a  demure  and 
startled  look.  "Let's  sit  it  out  in  the  room  between 
the  babies  and  the  dancin'-room  —  two  kinds  of  a 
b-a-w-1,  ain't  it?  But  I  guess  we  can  hear  ourselves 
speak  in  there.  There's  a  sort  of  a  bench,  kind  of  a 
hard  one  .  .  ." 

Sheila  followed  and  found  herself  presently  in  a 
half-dark  place  under  a  row  of  dangling  coats.  An 
iron  stove  near  by  glowed  with  red  sides  and  a  round 
red  mouth.  It  gave  a  flush  to  Dickie's  pale  face. 
Sheila  thought  she  had  never  seen  such  a  wistful  and 
untidy  lad. 

Yet,  poor  Dickie  at  the  moment  appeared  to  him 
self  rather  a  dashing  and  heroic  figure.  He  had  cer 
tainly  shown  courage  and  had  done  his  deed  with 
jauntiness.  Besides,  he  had  on  his  only  good  suit  of 


92  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

dark-blue  serge,  very  thin  serge.  It  was  one  that  he 
had  bought  second-hand  from  Jim,  and  he  was  sure, 
therefore,  of  its  perfection.  He  thought,  too,  that  he 
had  mastered,  by  the  stern  use  of  a  wet  brush,  a  cow 
lick  which  usually  disgraced  the  crown  of  his  head. 
He  had  n't.  It  had  long  ago  risen  to  its  wispish  height. 

"Jim  dances  fine,  don't  he?"  Dickie  said.  "I  kind 
of  wish  I  liked  to  dance.  Seems  like  athletic  stunts 
don't  appeal  to  me  some  way." 

"Would  you  call  dancing  an  athletic  stunt?" 
Sheila  leaned  back  against  a  coat  that  smelled  strongly 
of  hay  and  tobacco  and  caught  up  her  knees  in  her 
two  hands  so  that  the  small  white  slippers  pointed 
daintily,  clear  of  the  floor. 

Dickie  looked  at  them.  It  seemed  to  him  suddenly 
that  a  giant's  hand  had  laid  itself  upon  his  heart  and 
turned  it  backwards  as  a  pilot  turns  his  wheel  to 
change  the  course  of  a  ship.  The  contrary  movement 
made  him  catch  his  breath.  He  wanted  to  put  the  two 
white  silken  feet  against  his  breast,  to  button  them 
inside  his  coat,  to  keep  them  in  his  care. 

"Ain't  it,  though?"  he  managed  to  say.  "Ain't  it 
an  athletic  stunt?" 

"I've  always  heard  it  called  an  accomplishment." 

"God!"  said  Dickie  gently.  "I'd  'a'  never  thought 
of  that.  I  do  like  ski-ing,  though.  Have  you  tried  it, 
Miss  Arundel?" 

"No.  If  I  call  you  Dickie,  you  might  call  me 
Sheila,  I  think." 


A  SINGEING  OF  WINGS  93 

Dickie  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  feet.  "Sheila,"  he 
said. 

He  was  curiously  eloquent.  Again  Sheila  felt  the 
confusion  that  had  sent  her  abruptly  back  to  Jim. 
She  smoothed  out  the  tulle  on  her  knee. 

"I  think  I'd  love  to  ski.  Is  it  awfully  hard  to 
learn?" 

"No,  ma'am.  It's  just  dandy.  Especially  on  a  moon 
light  night,  like  night  before  last.  And  if  you  'd  'a'  had 
skis  on  you  would  n't  'a'  broke  through.  You  go 
along  so  quiet  and  easy,  pushing  yourself  a  little  with 
your  pole.  There 's  a  kind  of  a  swing  to  it  —  ' 

He  stood  up  and  threw  his  light,  thin  body  grace 
fully  into  the  ski-er's  pose.  "See?  You  slide  on  one 
foot,  then  on  the  other.  It's  as  easy  as  dreaming,  and 
as  still." 

"It's  like  a  gondola  —  "  suggested  Sheila. 

Dickie  put  his  head  on  one  side  and  Sheila  ex 
plained.  She  also  sang  a  snatch  of  a  Gondel-lied  to 
show  him  the  motion. 

"Yes'm,"  said  Dickie.  "It's  like  that.  It  kind  of 
has  a  —  has  a  — 

"Rhythm?" 

"I  guess  that's  the  word.  So's  riding.  I  like  to  do 
the  things  that  have  that." 

"Well,  then,  you  ought  to  like  dancing." 

"Yes'm.  Maybe  I  would  if  it  was  n't  for  havin'  to 
pull  a  girl  round  about  with  me.  It  kind  of  takes  my 
mind  off  the  pleasure." 


94  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

Sheila  laughed.  Then,  "Did  you  get  my  note?" 
she  asked. 

"  Yes'm."  Her  laughter  had  embarrassed  him,  and 
he  had  suddenly  a  hunted  look. 

"And  are  you  going  to  be  my  friend?" 

The  sliding  of  feet  on  a  floor  none  too  smooth,  the 
music,  the  wailing  of  a  baby  accompanied  Dickie's 
silence.  He  was  very  silent  and  sat  very  still,  his 
hands  hanging  between  his  knees,  his  head  bent.  He 
stared  at  Sheila's  feet.  His  face,  what  she  could  see  of 
it,  was,  even  beyond  the  help  of  firelight,  pale. 

"Why,  Dickie,  I  believe  you're  going  to  say  No!" 

"Some  fellows  would  say  Yes,"  Dickie  answered. 
"But  I  sort  of  promised  not  to  be  your  friend.  Poppa 
said  I'd  kind  of  dis-gust  you.  And  I  figure  that  I 
would  —  ': 

Sheila  hesitated. 

"You  mean  because  you  —  you  —  ?" 

"Yes'm." 

"Can't  you  stop?" 

He  shook  his  head  and  gave  her  a  tormented  look. 

"Oh,  Dickie!  Of  course  you  can!  At  your  age!" 

"Seems  like  it  means  more  to  me  than  anything 
else." 

"Dickie!  Dickie!" 

"  Yes  'm.  It  kind  of  takes  the  awful  edge  off  things." 

"What  do  you  mean?  I  don't  understand." 

"Things  are  so  sort  of  —  sharp  to  me.  I  mean,  I 
don't  know  if  I  can  tell  you.  I  feel  like  I  had  to  put 


A  SINGEING  OF  WINGS  95 

something  between  me  and  —  and  things.  Oh,  damn! 
I  can't  make  you  see  - 

"No,"  said  Sheila,  distressed. 

"It's  always  that-a-way,"  Dickie  went  on.  "I 
mean,  everything's  kind  of  —  too  much.  I  used  to 
run  miles  when  I  was  a  kid.  And  sometimes  now  when 
I  can  get  out  and  walk  or  ski,  the  feeling  goes.  But 
other  times  —  well,  ma'am,  whiskey  sort  of  takes  the 
edge  off  and  lets  something  kind  of  slack  down  that 
gets  sort  of  screwed  up.  Oh,  I  don't  know  .  .  ." 

"Did  you  ever  go  to  a  doctor  about  it?" 

Dickie  looked  up  at  her  and  smiled.  It  was  the 
sweetest  smile  —  so  patient  of  this  misunderstanding 
of  hers.  "No,  ma'am." 

"Then  you  don't  care  to  be  my  friend  enough  to  - 
to  try  —  " 

"I  would  n't  be  a  good  friend  to  you,"  said  Dickie. 
And  he  spoke  now  almost  sullenly.  "Because  I 
would  n't  want  you  to  have  any  other  friends.  I  hate 
it  to  see  you  with  any  other  fellow." 

"How  absurd!" 

"Maybe  it  is  absurd.  I  guess  it  seems  awful  foolish 
to  you."  He  moved  his  cracked  patent-leather  pump 
in  a  sort  of  pattern  on  the  floor.  Again  he  looked  up, 
this  time  with  a  freakish,  an  almost  elfin  flicker  of  his 
extravagant  eyelashes.  "There's  something  I  could 
be  real  well,"  he  said.  "Only,  I  guess  Poppa's  got 
there  ahead  of  me.  I  could  be  a  dandy  guardian  to 
you  —  Sheila." 


96  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

Again  Sheila  laughed.  But  the  ringing  of  her  silver 
coins  was  not  quite  true.  There  was  a  false  note.  She 
shut  her  eyes  involuntarily.  She  was  remembering 
that  instant  an  hour  or  two  before  when  Sylvester's 
look  had  held  hers  to  his  will.  The  thought  of  what 
she  had  promised  crushed  down  upon  her  conscious 
ness  with  the  smothering,  sudden  weight  of  its  reality. 
She  could  not  tell  Dickie.  She  could  not  —  though 
this  she  did  not  admit  —  bear  that  he  should  know. 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  in  a  hard  and  weary  voice. 
"Be  my  guardian.  That  ought  to  sober  any  one.  I 
think  I  shall  need  as  many  guardians  as  possible. 
And  —  here  comes  your  father.  I  have  this  dance 
with  him." 

Dickie  got  hurriedly  to  his  feet.  "Oh,  gosh!"  said 
he.  He  was  obviously  and  vividly  a  victim  of  panic. 
Sheila's  small  and  very  expressive  face  showed  a 
little  gleam  of  amused  contempt.  "My  guardian!" 
she  seemed  to  mock.  To  shorten  the  embarrassment 
of  the  moment  she  stepped  quickly  into  the  elder 
Hudson's  arm.  He  took  her  hand  and  began  to  pump 
it  up  and  down,  keeping  time  to  the  music  and  count 
ing  audibly.  "One,  two,  three."  To  Dickie  he  gave 
neither  a  word  nor  look. 

Sheila  lifted  her  chin  so  that  she  could  smile  at 
Dickie  over  Pap's  shoulder.  It  was  an  indulgent  and 
forgiving  smile,  but,  meeting  Dickie's  look,  it  went 
out. 

The  boy's  face  was  scarlet,  his  body  rigid,  his  lips 


A  SINGEING  OF  WINGS  97 

tight.  The  eyes  with  which  he  had  overcome  her 
smile  were  the  hard  eyes  of  a  man.  Sheila's  contempt 
had  fallen  upon  him  like  a  flame.  In  a  few  dreadful 
minutes  as  he  stood  there  it  burnt  up  a  part  of  his 
childishness. 

Sheila  went  on,  dancing  like  a  mist  in  Hudson's 
arms.  She  knew  that  she  had  done  something  to 
Dickie.  But  she  did  not  know  what  it  was  that  she 
had  done  . 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  BEACON  LIGHT 

OUT  of  the  Wyoming  Bad  Lands  —  orange,  tur 
quoise-green,  and  murky  blue,  of  outlandish  ridges, 
of  streaked  rock,  of  sudden,  twisted  canons,  a  coun 
try  like  a  dream  of  the  far  side  of  the  moon  —  rode 
Cosme  Hilliard  in  a  choking  cloud  of  alkali  dust.  He 
rode  down  Crazy  Woman's  Hill  toward  the  sage 
brush  flat,  where,  in  a  half-circle  of  cloudless,  snow- 
streaked  mountains,  lay  the  town  of  Millings  on  its 
rapid  glacier  river. 

Hilliard's  black  hair  was  powdered  with  dust;  his 
olive  face  was  gray ;  dust  lay  thick  in  the  folds  of  his 
neck-handkerchief ;  his  pony  matched  the  gray- white 
road  and  plodded  wearily,  coughing  and  tossing  his 
head  in  misery  from  the  nose-flies,  the  horse-flies,  the 
mosquitoes,  a  swarm  of  small,  tormenting  presences. 
His  rider  seemed  to  be  charmed  into  patience,  and 
yet  his  aquiline  face  was  not  the  face  of  a  patient 
man.  It  was  young  in  a  keen,  hard  fashion;  the  mouth 
and  eyes  were  those  of  a  Spanish-American  mother, 
golden  eyes  and  a  mouth  originally  beautiful,  soft, 
and  cruel,  which  had  been  tightened  and  straightened 
by  a  man's  will  and  experience.  It  had  been  used  so 
often  for  careless,  humorous  smiling  that  the  cruelty 
had  been  almost  worked  out  of  it.  Almost,  not  alto- 


THE  BEACON  LIGHT  99 

gether.  His  mother's  blood  kept  its  talons  on  him.  He 
was  Latin  and  dangerous  to  look  at,  for  all  the  big 
white  Anglo-Saxon  teeth,  the  slow,  slack,  Western 
American  carriage,  the  guarded  and  amused  expres 
sion  of  the  golden  eyes.  Here  was  a  bundle  of  racial 
contradictions,  not  yet  welded,  not  yet  attuned.  Per 
haps  the  one  consistent,  the  one  solvent,  expression 
was  that  of  alert  restlessness.  Cosine  Hilliard  was  not 
happy,  was  not  content,  but  he  was  eternally  enter 
tained.  He  was  not  uplifted  by  the  hopeful  illusions 
proper  to  his  age,  but  he  loved  adventure.  It  was  a 
bitter  face,  bitter  and  impatient  and  unschooled.  It 
seemed  to  laugh,  to  expect  the  worst  from  life,  and 
not  to  care  greatly  if  the  worst  should  come.  But  for 
such  minor  matters  of  dust  and  thirst  and  weariness, 
he  had  patience.  Physically  the  young  man  was  hard 
and  well-schooled.  He  rode  like  a  cowboy  and  carried 
a  cowboy's  rope  tied  to  his  saddle.  And  the  rope 
looked  as  though  it  had  been  used. 

Millings,  that  seemed  so  close  below  there  through 
the  clear,  high  atmosphere,  was  far  to  reach.  The  sun 
had  slipped  down  like  a  thin,  bright  coin  back  of  an 
iron  rock  before  the  traveler  rode  into  the  town.  His 
pony  shied  wearily  at  an  automobile  and  tried  to  make 
up  his  mind  to  buck,  but  a  light  pressure  of  the  spur 
and  a  smiling  word  was  enough  to  change  his  mind. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Dusty!  You  know  it's  not  worth 
the  trouble.  Remember  that  fifty  miles  you  Ve  come 
to-day!" 


100  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

The  occupants  of  the  motor  snapped  a  camera  and 
hummed  away.  They  had  no  prevision  of  being  stuck 
halfway  up  Crazy  Woman's  Hill  with  no  water  within 
fifteen  miles,  or  they  would  n't  have  exclaimed  so 
gayly  at  the  beauty  and  picturesqueness  of  the  tired 
cowboy. 

"He  looks  like  a  movie  hero,  does  n't  he?"  said  a 
girl. 

"No,  ma'am,"  protested  the  Western  driver,  who 
had  been  a  chauffeur  only  for  a  fortnight  and  knew 
considerably  less  about  the  insides  of  his  Ford  than 
he  did  about  the  insides  of  Hilliard's  cow-pony.  "He 
ain't  no  show.  He's  the  real  thing.  Seems  like  you 
dudes  got  things  kinder  twisted.  Things  ain't  like 
shows.  Shows  is  sometimes  like  things." 

"The  real  thing"  certainly  behaved  as  the  real 
thing  would.  He  rode  straight  to  the  nearest  saloon 
and  swung  out  of  his  saddle.  He  licked  the  dust  off 
his  lips,  looked  wistfully  at  the  swinging  door,  and 
turned  back  to  his  pony. 

"You  first,  Dusty  —  damn  you!"  and  led  the 
stumbling  beast  into  the  yard  of  The  Aura.  In  an 
hour  or  more  he  came  back.  He  had  dined  at  the 
hotel  and  he  had  bathed.  His  naturally  vivid  coloring 
glowed  under  the  street-light.  He  was  shaved  and 
brushed  and  sleek.  He  pushed  quickly  through  the 
swinging  doors  of  the  bar  and  stepped  into  the  saloon. 
It  was  truly  a  famous  bar  —  The  Aura  —  and  it  de 
served  its  fame.  It  shone  bright  and  cool  and  polished. 


THE  BEACON  LIGHT  101 

There  was  a  cheerful  clink  of  glasses,  a  subdued,  com 
fortable  sound  of  talk.  Men  drank  at  the  bar,  and 
drank  and  played  cards  at  the  small  tables.  A  giant 
in  a  white  apron  stood  to  serve  the  newcomer. 

Hilliard  ordered  his  drink,  sipped  it  leisurely,  then 
wandered  off  to  a  near-by  table.  There  he  stood, 
watching  the  game.  Not  long  after,  he  accepted  an 
invitation  and  joined  the  players.  From  then  till  mid 
night  he  was  oblivious  of  everything  but  the  magic 
squares  of  pasteboard,  the  shifting  pile  of  dirty  silver 
at  his  elbow,  the  faces  —  vacant,  clever,  or  rascally  — 
of  his  opponents.  But  at  about  midnight,  trouble 
came.  For  some  time  Hilliard  had  been  subconsciously 
irritated  by  the  divided  attention  of  a  player  opposite 
to  him  across  the  table.  This  man,  with  a  long,  thin 
face,  was  constantly  squinting  past  Cosme's  shoulder, 
squinting  and  leering  and  stretching  his  great  full- 
lipped  mouth  into  a  queer  half-smile.  At  last,  ab 
ruptly,  the  irritation  came  to  consciousness  and 
Cosme  threw  an  angry  glance  over  his  own  shoulder. 

Beside  the  giant  who  had  served  him  his  drink  a 
girl  stood :  a  thin,  straight  girl  in  black  and  white  who 
held  herself  so  still  that  she  seemed  painted  there 
against  the  mirror  on  the  wall.  Her  hands  rested  on 
her  slight  hips,  the  fine,  pointed,  ringless  fingers 
white  against  the  black  stuff  of  her  dress.  Her  neck, 
too,  was  white  and  her  face,  the  pure  unpowdered 
whiteness  of  childhood.  Her  chin  was  lifted,  her  lips 
laid  together,  her  eyes,  brilliant  and  clear,  of  no  defi- 


102  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

nite  color,  looked  through  her  surroundings.  She  was 
very  young,  not  more  than  seventeen.  The  mere 
presence  of  a  girl  was  startling  enough.  Barmaids  are 
unknown  to  the  experience  of  the  average  cowboy. 
But  this  girl  was  trebly  startling.  For  her  face  was 
rare.  It  was  not  Western,  not  even  American.  It  was 
a  fine-drawn,  finished,  Old- World  face,  with  long, 
arched  eyebrows,  large  lids,  shadowed  eyes,  nostrils 
a  little  pinched,  a  sad  and  tender  mouth.  It  was  a 
face  whose  lines  might  have  followed  the  pencil  of 
Botticelli  —  those  little  hollows  in  the  cheeks,  that 
slight  exaggeration  of  the  pointed  chin,  that  silky, 
rippling  brown  hair.  There  was  no  touch  of  artifice; 
it  was  an  unpainted  young  face;  hair  brushed  and 
knotted  simply;  the  very  carriage  of  the  body  was 
alien;  supple,  unconscious,  restrained. 

Cosme  Milliard's  look  lasted  for  a  minute.  Re 
turning  to  his  opponent  it  met  an  ugly  grimace.  He 
flushed  and  the  game  went  on. 

But  the  incident  had  roused  Hilliard's  antagonism. 
He  disliked  that  man  with  the  grimacing  mouth.  He 
began  to  watch  him.  An  hour  or  two  later  Cosme's 
thin,  dark  hand  shot  across  the  table  and  gripped  the 
fellow's  wrist. 

"Caught  you  that  time,  you  tin-horn,"  he  said 
quietly. 

Instantly,  almost  before  the  speech  was  out,  the 
giant  in  the  apron  had  hurled  himself  across  the  room 
and  gripped  the  cheat,  who  stood,  a  hand  arrested 


THE  BEACON  LIGHT  103 

on  its  way  to  his  pocket,  snarling  helplessly.  But  the 
other  players,  his  fellow  sheep-herders,  fell  away  from 
Hilliard  dangerously. 

"No  shootin',"  said  the  giant  harshly.  "No  shoot- 
in'  in  The  Aura.  It  ain't  allowed." 

"No  callin'  names  either,"  growled  the  prisoner. 
"Me  and  my  friends  would  like  to  settle  with  the 
youthful  stranger." 

"Settle  with  him,  then,  but  somewheres  else.  No 
fightin'  in  The  Aura." 

There  was  an  acquiescent  murmur  from  the  other 
table  and  the  sheep-herder  gave  in.  He  exchanged  a 
look  with  his  friends,  and  Carthy,  seeing  them  dis 
posed  to  return  quietly  to  the  game,  left  them  and 
took  up  his  usual  position  behind  the  bar.  The  bar 
maid  moved  a  little  closer  to  his  elbow.  Hilliard 
noticed  that  her  eyes  had  widened  in  her  pale  face. 
He  made  a  brief,  contemptuous  excuse  to  his  oppo 
nents,  settled  his  account  with  them,  and  strolled  over 
to  the  bar.  From  Carthy  he  ordered  another  drink. 
He  saw  the  girl's  eyes  studying  the  hand  he  put  out 
for  his  glass  and  he  smiled  a  little  to  himself.  When 
she  looked  up  he  was  ready  with  his  golden  eyes  to 
catch  her  glance.  Both  pairs  of  eyes  smiled.  She  came 
a  step  toward  him. 

"I  believe  I've  heard  of  you,  miss,"  he  said. 

A  delicate  pink  stained  her  face  and  throat  and  he 
wondered  if  she  could  possibly  be  shy. 

"Some  fellows  I  met  over  in  the  Big  Horn  country 


104  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

lately  told  me  to  look  you  up  if  I  came  to  Millings. 
They  said  something  about  Hudson's  Queen.  It 's  the 
Hudson  Hotel  is  n't  it?  —  " 

A  puzzled,  rather  worried  look  crept  into  her  eyes, 
but  she  avoided  his  question.  "  You  were  working  in 
the  Big  Horn  country?  I  hoped  you  were  from  Hidden 
Creek." 

"I'm  on  my  way  there,"  he  said.  "I  know  that 
country  well.  You  come  from  over  there?" 

"No."  She  smiled  faintly.  "But"  —  and  here  her 
breast  lifted  on  a  deep,  spasmodic  sigh  —  "some  day 
I'm  going  there." 

"It's  not  like  any  other  country,"  he  said,  turn 
ing  his  glass  in  his  supple  fingers.  "It's  wonderful. 
But  wild  and  lonesome.  You  would  n't  be  caring 
for  it  —  not  for  longer  than  a  sunny  day  or  two,  I 
reckon." 

He  used  the  native  phrases  with  sure  familiarity, 
and  yet  in  his  speaking  of  them  there  was  something 
unfamiliar.  Evidently  she  was  puzzled  by  him,  and 
Cosme  was  not  sorry  that  he  had  so  roused  her  curi 
osity.  He  was  very  curious  himself,  so  much  so  that 
he  had  forgotten  the  explosive  moment  of  a  few  short 
minutes  back. 

The  occupants  of  the  second  table  pushed  away 
their  chairs  and  came  over  to  the  bar.  For  a  while  the 
barmaid  was  busy,  making  their  change,  answering 
their  jests,  bidding  them  good-night.  It  was,  "Well, 
good-night,  Miss  Arundel,  and  thank  you." 


THE  BEACON  LIGHT  105 

"See  you  next  Saturday,  Miss  Arundel,  if  I'm 
alive  —  " 

Hilliard  drummed  on  the  counter  with  his  finger 
tips  and  frowned.  His  puzzled  eyes  wove  a  pattern 
of  inquiry  from  the  men  to  the  girl  and  back.  One  of 
them,  a  ruddy-faced,  town  boy,  lingered.  He  had  had 
a  drop  too  much  of  The  Aura's  hospitality.  He  rested 
rather  top-heavily  against  the  bar  and  stretched  out 
his  hand. 

"Are  n't  you  going  to  say  me  a  real  good-night, 
Miss  Sheila,"  he  besought,  and  a  tipsy  dimple  cut 
itself  into  his  cheek. 

"Do  go  home,  Jim,"  murmured  the  barmaid. 
"You've  broken  your  promise  again.  It's  two 
o'clock." 

He  made  great  ox-eyes  at  her,  his  hand  still  beg 
ging,  its  blunt  fingers  curled  upward  like  a  thirsty 
cup. 

His  face  was  emptied  of  everything  but  its  desire. 

It  was  perfectly  evident  that  "Miss  Sheila"  was 
tormented  by  the  look,  by  the  eyes,  by  the  hand,  by 
the  very  presence  of  the  boy.  She  pressed  her  lips 
tight,  drew  her  fine  arched  brows  together,  and 
twisted  her  fingers. 

"I'll  go  home,"  he  asserted  obstinately,  "when 
you  tell  me  a  proper  goo'-night  —  not  before." 

Her  eyes  glittered.  "Shall  I  tell  Carthy  to  turn 
you  out,  Jim?" 

He  smiled  triumphantly.  "Uh,"  said  he,  "your 


106  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

watch-dog  went  out.  Dickie  called  him  to  answer  the 
telephone.  Now,  will  you  tell  me  good-night,  Sheila?" 

Cosine  hoped  that  the  girl  would  glance  at  him  for 
help,  he  had  his  long  steel  muscles  braced;  but,  after 
a  moment's  thought  —  "And  she  can  think.  She's  as 
cool  as  she's  shy,"  commented  the  observer  —  she 
put  her  hand  on  Jim's.  He  grabbed  it,  pressed  his  lips 
upon  it. 

"Goo'-night,"  he  said,  "Goo'-night.  I'll  go  now." 
He  swaggered  out  as  though  she  had  given  him  a  rose. 

The  barmaid  put  her  hand  beneath  her  apron  and 
rubbed  it.  Cosme  laughed  a  little  at  the  quaint  action. 

"Do  they  give  you  lots  of  trouble,  Miss  Arundel?'" 
he  asked  her  sympathetically. 

She  looked  at  him.  But  her  attitude  was  not  sc 
simple  and  friendly  as  it  had  been.  Evidently  her 
little  conflict  with  Jim  had  jarred  her  humor.  She 
looked  distressed,  angry.  Cosme  felt  that,  unfairly 
enough,  she  lumped  him  with  The  Enemy.  He  won 
dered  pitifully  if  she  had  given  The  Enemy  its  name, 
if  her  experience  had  given  her  the  knowledge  of  such 
names.  He  had  a  vision  of  the  pretty,  delicate  little 
thing  standing  there  night  after  night  as  though  di 
vided  by  the  bar  from  prowling  beasts.  And  yet  she 
was  known  over  the  whole  wide,  wild  country  as 
"Hudson's  Queen."  Her  crystal,  childlike  look  must 
be  one  of  those  extraordinary  survivals,  a  piteous 
sort  of  accident.  Cosme  called  himself  a  sentimen 
talist.  Spurred  by  this  reaction  against  his  more 


THE  BEACON  LIGHT  107 

romantic  tendencies,  he  leaned  forward.  He  too  was 
going  to  ask  the  barmaid  for  a  good-night  or  a  greet 
ing  or  a  good-bye.  His  hand  was  out,  when  he  saw 
her  face  stiffen,  her  lips  open  to  an  "Oh!"  of  warning 
or  of  fear.  He  wheeled  and  flung  up  his  arm  against  a 
hurricane  of  blows. 

His  late  opponents  had  decided  to  take  advantage 
of  Carthy's  absence,  and  inflict  chastisement  prompt 
and  merciless  upon  the  "youthful  stranger."  If  it 
had  not  been  for  that  small  frightened  "Oh"  Cosme 
would  have  been  down  at  once. 

With  that  moment's  advantage  he  fought  like  a 
tiger,  his  golden  eyes  ablaze.  Swift  and  dangerous 
anger  was  one  of  his  gifts.  He  was  against  the  wall, 
he  was  torn  from  it.  One  of  his  opponents  staggered 
across  the  room  and  fell,  another  crumpled  up  against 
the  bar.  Hilliard  wheeled  and  jabbed,  plunged,  was 
down,  was  up,  bleeding  and  laughing.  He  was  whirled 
this  way  and  that,  the  men  from  whom  he  had  struck 
himself  free  recovered  themselves,  closed  in  upon 
him.  A  blow  between  the  eyes  half  stunned  him,  an 
other  on  his  mouth  silenced  his  laughter.  The  room 
was  getting  blurred.  He  was  forced  back  against  the 
bar,  fighting,  but  not  effectively.  The  snarling  laugh 
ter  was  not  his  now,  but  that  of  the  cheat. 

Something  gave  way  behind  him;  it  was  as  if  the 
bar,  against  which  he  was  bent  backwards,  had 
melted  to  him  and  hardened  against  his  foes.  For  an 
instant  he  was  free  from  blows  and  tearing  hands. 


108  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

He  saw  that  a  door  in  the  bar  had  opened  and  shut. 
There  was  a  small  pressure  on  his  arm,  a  pressure 
which  he  blindly  obeyed.  In  front  of  him  another 
door  opened,  and  closed.  He  heard  the  shooting  of  a 
bolt.  He  was  in  the  dark.  The  small  pressure,  cold 
through  the  torn  silk  sleeve  of  his  white  shirt,  con 
tinued  to  urge  him  swiftly  along  a  passage.  He  was 
allowed  to  rest  an  instant  against  a  wall.  A  light 
was  turned  on  with  a  little  click  above  his  head.  He 
found  himself  at  the  end  of  the  open  hallway.  Before 
him  lay  the  brilliant  velvet  night. 

Hilliard  pressed  his  hands  upon  his  eyes  trying  to 
clear  his  vision.  He  felt  sick  and  giddy.  The  little 
barmaid's  face,  all  terrified  and  urgent  eyes,  danced 
up  and  down. 

"Don't  waste  any  time!"  she  said.  "Get  out  of 
Millings!  Where's  your  pony?" 

At  that  he  looked  at  her  and  smiled. 

"I'm  not  leaving  Millings  till  to-morrow,"  he  said 
uncertainly  with  wounded  lips.  "Don't  look  like 
that,  girl.  I'm  not  much  hurt.  If  I'm  not  mistaken, 
your  watch-dog  is  back  and  very  much  on  his  job.  I 
reckon  that  our  friends  will  leave  Millings  consider 
ably  before  I  do." 

In  fact,  behind  them  at  the  end  of  the  passage  there 
was  a  sort  of  roar.  Carthy  had  returned  to  avenge 
The  Aura. 

"You're  sure  you're  not  hurt?  You're  sure  they 
won't  try  to  hurt  you  again?" 


THE  BEACON  LIGHT  109 

He  shook  his  head.  "Not  they  ..."  He  stood 
looking  at  her  and  the  mist  slowly  cleared,  his  vision 
of  her  steadied.  "Shall  I  see  you  to-morrow?" 

She  drew  back  from  him  a  little.  "No,"  she  said. 
"I  sleep  all  the  morning.  And,  afterwards,  I  don't 
see  any  one  except  a  few  old  friends.  I  go  riding  .  .  ." 

He  puckered  his  eyelids  inquiringly.  Then,  with  a 
sudden  reckless  fling  of  his  shoulders,  he  put  out  his 
hand  boldly  and  caught  her  small  pointed  chin  in 
his  palm.  He  bent  down  his  head. 

She  stood  there  quite  still  and  white,  looking 
straight  up  into  his  face.  The  exquisite  smoothness 
of  her  little  cool  chin  photographed  itself  upon  his 
memory.  As  he  bent  down  closer  to  the  grave  and 
tender  lips,  he  was  suddenly,  unaccountably  fright 
ened  and  ashamed.  His  hand  dropped,  sought  for  her 
small  limp  hand.  His  lips  shifted  from  their  course 
and  went  lower,  just  brushing  her  fingers. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  confusedly.  He  was 
painfully  embarrassed,  stammered,  "I  —  I  wanted 
to  thank  you.  Good-bye  ..." 

She  said  good-bye  in  the  smallest  sweet  voice  he 
had  ever  heard.  It  followed  his  memory  like  some 
weary,  pitiful  little  ghost. 


CHAPTER  XI 
IN  THE  PUBLIC  EYE 

No  sight  more  familiar  to  the  corner  of  Main  and 
Resident  Streets  than  that  of  Sylvester  Hudson's 
Ford  car  sliding  up  to  the  curb  in  front  of  his  hotel 
at  two  o'clock  in  a  summer  afternoon.  He  would  slip 
out  from  under  his  steering-wheel,  his  linen  duster 
flapping  about  his  long  legs,  and  he  would  stalk 
through  the  rocking,  meditative  observers  on  the 
piazza  and  through  the  lobby  past  Dickie's  frozen 
stare,  upstairs  to  the  door  of  Miss  Arundel's  "suite." 
There  he  was  bidden  to  come  in.  A  few  minutes  later 
they  would  come  down  together,  Sheila,  too,  passing 
Dickie  wordlessly,  and  they  would  hum  away  from 
Millings  leaving  a  veil  of  golden  dust  to  smother  the 
comments  in  their  wake.  There  were  days  when 
Sheila's  pony,  a  gift  from  Jim  Greely,  was  led  up 
earlier  than  the  hour  of  Hudson's  arrival,  on  which 
days  Sheila,  in  a  short  skirt  and  a  boy's  shirt  and 
a  small  felt  Stetson,  would  ride  away  alone  toward 
the  mountain  of  her  dreams.  Sometimes  Jim  rode 
with  her.  It  was  not  always  possible  to  forbid  him. 

The  day  after  Cosme  Hilliard's  spectacular  passage 
was  one  of  Hudson's  days.  The  pony  did  not  appear, 
but  Sylvester  did  and  came  down  with  his  prize.  The 
lobby  was  crowded.  Sheila  threaded  her  way  amongst 


IN  THE  PUBLIC  EYE  111 

the  medley  of  tourists,  paused  and  deliberately  drew 
near  to  the  desk.  At  sight  of  her  Dickie's  whiteness 
dyed  itself  scarlet.  He  rose  and  with  an  apparent 
effort  lifted  his  eyes  to  her  look. 

They  did  not  smile  at  each  other.  Sheila  spoke 
sharply,  each  word  a  little  soft  lash. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you.  Will  you  come  to  my 
sitting-room  when  I  get  back?" 

"Yes'm,"  said  Dickie.  It  was  the  tone  of  an  un- 
wincing  pride.  Under  the  desk,  hidden  from  sight, 
his  hand  was  a  white-knuckled  fist. 

Sheila  passed  on,  trailed  by  Hudson,  who  was  smil 
ing  not  agreeably  to  himself.  Over  the  smile  he  gave 
his  son  a  cruel  look.  It  was  as  though  an  enemy  had 
said,  "Hurts  you,  doesn't  it?"  Dickie  returned  the 
look  with  level  eyes. 

The  rockers  on  the  piazza  stopped  rocking,  stopped 
talking,  stopped  breathing,  it  would  seem,  to  watch 
Sylvester  help  Sheila  into  his  car;  not  that  he  helped 
her  greatly  —  she  had  an  appearance  of  melting 
through  his  hands  and  getting  into  her  place  beside 
his  by  a  sort  of  sleight  of  body.  He  made  a  series  of 
angular  movements,  smiled  at  her,  and  started  the 
car. 

"Well,  little  girl,"  said  he,  "where  to  this  after 
noon?" 

When  Sheila  rode  her  pony  she  always  rode  toward 
The  Hill.  But  in  that  direction  she  had  never  allowed 
Sylvester  to  take  her.  She  looked  vaguely  through  the 


THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

wind-shield  now  and  said,  "Anywhere  —  that  canon, 
the  one  we  came  home  by  last  week.  It  was  so  queer." 

"It'll  be  dern  dusty,  I'm  afraid." 

"I  don't  care."  Sheila  wrapped  her  gray  veil  over 
her  small  hat  which  fitted  close  about  her  face.  "I'm 
getting  used  to  the  dust.  Does  it  ever  rain  around 
Millings?  And  does  it  ever  stop  blowing?" 

"We  don't  like  Millings  to-day,  do  we?" 

Sylvester  was  bending  his  head  to  peer  through 
the  gray  mist  of  her  veil.  She  held  herself  stiffly 
beside  him,  showing  the  profile  of  a  small  Sphinx. 
Suddenly  it  turned  slightly,  seemed  to  wince  back. 
Girlie,  at  the  gate  of  Number  18  Cottonwood  Avenue, 
had  stopped  to  watch  them  pass.  Girlie  did  not  speak. 
Her  face  looked  smitten,  the  ripe  fruit  had  turned 
bitter  upon  her  ruddy  lips.  The  tranquil  emptiness 
of  her  beauty  had  filled  itself  stormily. 

Sheila  did  not  answer  Hudson's  reproachful  ques 
tion.  She  leaned  back,  dropped  back,  rather,  into  a 
tired  little  heap  and  let  the  country  slide  by  —  the 
strange,  wide,  broken  country  with  its  circling  mesas, 
its  somber  grays  and  browns  and  dusty  greens,  its 
bare  purple  hills,  rocks  and  sand  and  golden  dirt,  and 
now  and  then,  in  the  sudden  valley  bottoms,  sway 
ing  groves  of  vivid  green  and  ribbons  of  emerald 
meadows.  The  mountains  shifted  and  opened  their 
canons,  gave  a  glimpse  of  their  beckoning  and  for 
bidding  fastnesses  and  closed  them  again  as  though 
by  a  whispered  Sesame, 


IN  THE  PUBLIC  EYE  113 

"What  was  the  row  last  night?"  asked  Sylvester 
in  his  voice  of  cracked  tenderness.  "  Carthy  says  there 
was  a  bunch  of  toughs.  Were  you  scared  good  and 
plenty?  I  'm  sorry.  It  don't  happen  often,  believe  me. 

"I  wish  you  could  'a'  heard  Carthy  talkin'  about 
you,  Sheila,"  went  on  Sylvester,  his  eyes,  filled  with 
uneasiness,  studying  her  silence  and  her  huddled 
smallness,  hands  in  the  pockets  of  her  light  coat, 
veiled  face  turned  a  little  away,  "Say,  that  would  'a' 
set  you  up  all  right!  Talk  about  beacons!" 

Here  she  flashed  round  on  him,  as  though  her  whole 
body  had  been  electrified.  "Tell  me  all  that  again," 
she  begged  in  a  voice  that  he  could  not  interpret  ex 
cept  that  there  was  in  it  a  sound  of  tears.  "Tell  me 
again  about  a  beacon  ..." 

He  stammered.  He  was  confused.  But  stumblingly 
he  tried  to  fulfill  her  demand.  Here  was  a  thirst  for 
something,  and  he  wanted  above  everything  in  the 
world  to  satisfy  it.  Sheila  listened  to  him  with  un 
steady,  parted  lips.  He  could  see  them  through  the  veil. 

"You  still  think  I  am  that?"  she  asked. 

He  was  eager  to  prove  it  to  her.  "Still  think?  Still 
think?  Why,  girl,  I  don't  hev  to  think.  Don't  the  till- 
box  speak  for  itself?  Don't  Carthy  handle  a  crowd 
that's  growing  under  his  eyes?  Don't  we  sell  more 
booze  in  a  week  now  than  we  used  to  in  a  —  "  Sud 
denly  he  realized  that  he  was  on  the  wrong  tack.  It 
was  his  first  break.  He  drew  in  a  sharp  breath  and 
stopped,  his  face  flushing  deeply. 


114  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

"Yes?"  questioned  Sheila,  melting  her  syllables 
like  slivers  of  ice  on  her  tongue.  "Go  on." 

"Er  —  er,  don't  we  draw  a  finer  lot  of  fellows  than 
we  ever  did  before?  Don't  they  behave  more  decent 
and  orderly?  Don't  they  get  civilization  just  for  look 
ing  at  you,  Miss  Sheila?" 

"And  —  and  booze?  Jim  Greely,  for  instance,  Mr. 
James  Greely,  of  the  Millings  National  Bank  —  he 
never  used  to  patronize  The  Aura.  And  now  he's 
there  every  night  till  twelve  and  often  later,  for  he 
won't  obey  me  any  more.  I  wonder  whether  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Greely  are  glad  that  you  are  getting  a  better 
type  of  customer!  Mrs.  Greely  almost  stopped  me 
on  the  street  the  other  day  —  that  is,  she  almost  got 
up  courage  to  speak  to  me.  Before  now  she 's  cut  me, 
just  as  Girlie  does,  just  as  your  wife  does,  just  as 
Dickie  does  —  " 

"Dickie  cut  you?"  Sylvester  threw  back  his  head 
and  laughed  uneasily,  and  with  a  strained  note  of 
alarm.  "That's  a  good  one,  Miss  Sheila.  I  kinder 
fancied  you  did  the  cuttin'  there." 

"Dickie  has  n't  spoken  to  me  since  he  came  to  me 
that  day  when  he  heard  what  I  was  going  to  do  and 
tried  to  talk  me  out  of  doing  it." 

"  Yes'm.  He  came  to  me  first,"  drawled  Sylvester. 

They  were  both  silent,  busy  with  the  amazing 
memory  of  Dickie,  of  his  disheveled  fury,  of  his  lash 
ing  eloquence.  He  had  burst  in  upon  his  family  at 
breakfast  that  April  morning  when  Millings  was 


IN  THE  PUBLIC  EYE  115 

humming  with  the  news,  had  advanced  upon  his 
father,  stood  above  him. 

"Is  it  true  that  you  are  going  to  make  a  barmaid 
of  Sheila?" 

Sylvester,  in  an  effort  to  get  to  his  feet,  had  been 
held  back  by  Dickie's  thin  hand  that  shot  out  at 
him  like  a  sword. 

"Sure  it's  true,"  Sylvester  had  said  coolly.  But 
he  had  not  felt  cool.  He  had  felt  shaken  and  confused. 
The  boy's  entire  self-forgetfulness,  his  entire  absence 
of  fear,  had  made  Hudson  feel  that  he  was  talking  to 
a  stranger,  a  not  inconsiderable  one. 

"It's  true,  then."  Dickie  had  drawn  a  big  breath. 
"  You  —  you  "  -  he  seemed  to  swallow  an  epithet  — 
"you'll  let  that  girl  go  into  your  filthy  saloon  and 
make  money  for  you  by  her  —  by  her  prettiness  and 
her  —  her  ignorance  — 

"Say,  Dickie,"  his  father  had  drawled,  "y°u  goin* 
to  run  for  the  legislature?  Such  a  lot  of  classy  words ! " 
But  anger  and  alarm  were  rising  in  him. 

"You've  fetched  her  away  out  here,"  went  on 
Dickie,  "and  kinder  got  her  cornered  and  you've 
talked  a  lot  of  slush  to  her  and  you've  —  ': 

Here  Girlie  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Well,  anyway,  she's  a  willing  victim,  Dickie," 
Girlie  had  said. 

Dickie  had  flashed  her  one  look.  "Is  she?  I'll  see 
about  that.  Where's  Sheila?" 

And  then,  there  was  Sheila's  memory.  Dickie  had 


116  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

come  upon  her  in  a  confusion  of  boxes,  her  little 
trunk  half-unpacked,  its  treasures  scattered  over  the 
chairs  and  floor.  Sheila  had  lifted  to  him  from  where 
she  knelt  a  glowing  and  excited  face.  "Oh,  Dickie," 
she  had  said,  her  relief  at  the  escape  from  Mrs. 
Hudson  pouring  music  into  her  voice,  "have  you 
heard?" 

He  had  sat  down  on  one  of  the  plush  chairs  of 
"the  suite"  as  though  he  felt  weak.  Then  he  had 
got  up  and  had  walked  to  and  fro  while  she  described 
her  dream,  the  beauty  of  her  chosen  mission,  the 
glory  of  the  saloon  whose  high  priestess  she  had  be 
come.  And  Dickie  had  listened  with  the  bitter  and 
disillusioned  and  tender  face  of  a  father  hearing  the 
prattle  of  a  beloved  child. 

"You  honest  think  all  that,  Sheila?"  he  had  asked 
her  patiently. 

She  had  started  again,  standing  now  to  face  him 
and  beginning  to  be  angry  at  his  look.  This  boy  whom 
she  had  lifted  up  to  be  her  friend ! 

"Say,"  Dickie  had  drawled,  "Poppa 's  some  guard 
ian  ! "  He  had  advanced  upon  her  as  though  he  wanted 
to  shake  her.  "You  gotta  give  it  right  up,  Sheila," 
he  had  said  sternly.  "Sooner  than  immediately.  It's 
not  to  go  through.  Say,  girl,  you  don't  know  much 
about  bars."  He  had  drawn  a  picture  for  her,  draw 
ing  partly  upon  experience,  partly  upon  his  imagi 
nation,  the  gift  of  vivid  metaphor  descending  upon 
him.  He  used  words  that  bit  into  her  memory.  Sheila 


IN  THE  PUBLIC  EYE  117 

had  listened  and  then  she  had  put  her  hands  over  her 
ears.  He  pulled  them  down.  He  went  on.  Sheila's 
Irish  blood  had  boiled  up  into  her  brain.  She  stormed 
back  at  him. 

"It's  you,  it's  your  use  of  The  Aura  that  has  been 
its  only  shame,  Dickie,"  was  the  last  of  all  the  things 
she  had  said. 

At  which,  Dickie  standing  very  still,  had  answered, 
"If  you  go  there  and  stand  behind  the  bar  all  night 
with  Carthy  to  keep  hands  off,  I  —  I  swear  I  '11 
never  set  foot  inside  the  place  again.  You  ain't  agoin' 
to  be  my  beacon  light  - 

"Well,  then,"  said  Sheila,  "I  shall  have  done  one 
good  thing  at  least  by  being  there." 

Dickie,  going  out,  had  passed  a  breathless  Syl 
vester  on  his  way  in.  The  two  had  looked  at  each 
other  with  a  look  that  cut  in  two  the  tie  between 
them,  and  Sheila,  running  to  Sylvester,  had  burst 
into  tears. 

The  motor  hummed  evenly  on  its  way.  It  began, 
with  a  change  of  tune,  to  climb  the  graded  side  of 
one  of  the  enormous  mesas.  Sheila,  having  lived 
through  again  that  scene  with  Dickie,  took  out  a 
small  handkerchief  and  busied  herself  with  it  under 
her  veil.  She  laughed  shakily. 

"Perhaps  a  beacon  does  more  good  by  warning 
people  away  than  by  attracting  them,"  she  said. 
"Dickie  has  certainly  kept  his  word.  I  don't  believe 


118  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

he's  touched  a  drop  since  I've  been  barmaid,  Mr. 
Hudson.  I  should  think  you'd  be  proud  of  him." 

Sylvester  was  silent  while  they  climbed  the  hill. 
He  changed  gears  and  sounded  his  horn.  They  passed 
another  motor  on  a  dangerous  curve.  They  began  to 
drop  down  again. 

"Some  day,"  said  Sylvester  in  a  quiet  voice,  "I'll 
break  every  bone  in  Dickie's  body."  He  murmured 
something  more  under  his  breath  in  too  low  a  tone, 
fortunately,  for  Sheila's  ear.  From  her  position  be 
hind  the  bar,  she  had  become  used  to  swearing.  She 
had  heard  a  strange  variety  of  language.  But  when 
Sylvester  drew  upon  his  experience  and  his  fancy, 
the  artist  in  him  was  at  work. 

"Do  you  suppose,"  asked  his  companion  in  an  im 
personal  tone,  "that  it  was  really  a  hard  thing  for 
Dickie  to  do  —  to  give  it  up,  I  mean?" 

"By  the  look  of  him  the  last  few  months,"  snarled 
Sylvester,  "I  should  say  it  had  taken  out  of  him 
what  little  real  feller  there  ever  was  in." 

Sheila  considered  this.  She  remembered  Dickie,  as 
he  had  risen  behind  the  desk  half  an  hour  before.  She 
did  not  contradict  Sylvester.  She  had  learned  not  to 
contradict  him.  But  Dickie's  face  with  its  tight-knit 
look  of  battle  stood  out  very  clear  to  refute  the  ac 
cusation  of  any  loss  of  manliness.  He  was  still  a 
quaint  and  ruffled  Dickie.  But  he  was  vastly  aged. 
From  twenty  to  twenty-seven,  he  seemed  to  have 
jumped  in  a  few  weeks.  A  key  had  turned  in  the 


IN  THE  PUBLIC  EYE  119 

formerly  open  door  of  his  spirit.  The  indeterminate 
lips  had  shut  hard,  the  long-lashed  eyes  had  defi 
nitely  put  a  guard  upon  their  dreams.  He  was  shock 
ingly  thin  and  colorless,  however.  Sheila  dwelt  pain 
fully  upon  the  sort  of  devastation  she  had  wrought. 
Girlie's  face,  and  Dickie's,  and  Jim's.  A  grieving 
pressure  squeezed  her  heart;  she  lifted  her  chest  with 
an  effort  on  a  stifled  breath. 

"God!  Sheila,"  said  Sylvester  harshly.  The  car 
wobbled  a  little.  "Ain't  you  happy,  girl?" 

Sheila  looked  up  at  him.  Her  veil  was  wet  against 
her  cheeks. 

"Last  night,"  she  said  unevenly,  "a  man  was  go 
ing  to  kiss  me  on  my  mouth  and  —  and  he  changed 
his  mind  and  kissed  my  hand  instead.  He  left  a  smear 
of  blood  on  my  fingers  from  where  those  —  those 
other  men  had  struck  his  lips.  I  don't  know  why  it 
f -frightens  me  so  to  think  about  that.  But  it  does." 

She  seemed  to  collapse  before  him  into  a  little 
sobbing  child. 

"And  every  day  when  I  wake  up,"  she  wailed,  "I 
t-taste  whiskey  on  my  tongue  and  I  —  I  smell  ciga 
rette  smoke  in  my  hair.  And  I  d-dream  about  men 
looking  at  me  —  the  way  Jim  looks.  And  I  can't  let 
myself  think  of  Father  any  more.  He  used  to  hold 
his  chin  up  and  walk  along  as  if  he  looked  above 
every  one  and  everything.  I  don't  believe  he'd  ever 
seen  a  barmaid  or  a  drunken  man  —  not  really  seen 
them,  Mr.  Hudson." 


120  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

"Then  he  was  n't  a  real  artist  after  all,"  Sylvester 
spoke  slowly  and  carefully.  He  was  pale. 

"He  1-loved  the  stars,"  sobbed  Sheila,  her  broken 
reserve  had  let  out  a  flood;  "he  told  me  to  keep  look 
ing  at  the  stars." 

"Well,  ma'am,"  Sylvester  spoke  again,  "I  never 
knowed  the  stars  to  turn  their  backs  on  anything. 
Barmaids  or  drunks  or  kings  —  they  all  look  about 
alike  to  the  stars,  I  reckon.  Say,  Sheila,  maybe  you 
have  n't  got  the  pluck  for  real  living.  Maybe  you  're 
the  kind  of  doll-baby  girl  that  craves  sheltering.  I 
reckon  I  made  a  big  mistake." 

Sheila  moved  slightly  as  though  his  speech  had 
pricked  her. 

"It  kind  of  did  n't  occur  to  me,"  went  on  Sylvester, 
"that  you'd  care  a  whole  lot  about  being  ig-nored  by 
Momma  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Greely  and  Girlie.  Say, 
Girlie 's  got  to  take  her  chance  same 's  anybody  else. 
Why  don't  you  give  Jim  a  jolt?" 

Sheila  at  this  began  to  laugh.  She  caught  her 
breath.  She  laughed  and  cried  together. 

Sylvester  patted  her  shoulder.  "Poor  kid!  You're 
all  in.  Late  hours  too  much  for  you,  I  reckon.  Come 
on  now  —  tell  Pap  everything.  Ease  off  your  heart. 
It 's  wonderful  what  crying  does  for  the  nervous  sys 
tem.  I  laid  out  on  a  prairie  one  night  when  I  was 
about  your  age  and  just  naturally  bawled.  You  'd  'a' 
thought  I  was  a  baby  steer,  hanged  if  you  would  n't 
'a'  thought  so.  It's  the  fight  scared  you  plumb  to 


IN  THE  PUBLIC  EYE  121 

pieces.  Carthy  told  me  about  it  and  how  you  let  the 
good-looking  kid  out  by  the  back.  I  seen  him  ride  off 
toward  Hidden  Creek  this  morning.  He  was  a  real 
pretty  boy  too.  Say,  Sheila,  was  n't  you  ever  kissed?  " 

"No,"  said  Sheila.  "And  I  don't  want  to  be." 

Sylvester  laughed  with  a  little  low  cackle  of  in 
tense  pleasure  and  amusement.  "Well,  you  shan't 
be.  No,  you  shan't.  Nobody  shall  kiss  Sheila!" 

His  method  seemed  to  him  successful.  Sheila 
stopped  crying  and  stopped  laughing,  dried  her  eyes, 
murmured,  "I'm  all  right  now,  thank  you,  Mr. 
Hudson,"  and  fell  into  an  abysmal  silence. 

He  talked  smoothly,  soothingly,  skillfully,  con 
fident  of  his  power  to  manage  "gels."  Once  in  a 
while  he  saw  her  teeth  gleam  as  though  she  smiled. 
As  they  came  back  to  Millings  in  the  afterglow  of  a 
brief  Western  twilight,  she  unfastened  her  veil  and 
showed  a  quiet,  thoughtful  face. 

She  thanked  him,  gave  him  her  hand.  "Don't  come 
up,  please,  Mr.  Hudson,"  she  said  with  that  cool 
composure  of  which  at  times  she  was  surprisingly 
capable.  "I  shall  have  my  dinner  sent  up  and  take  a 
little  rest  before  I  go  to  work." 

"You  feel  O.K.?"  he  asked  her  doubtfully.  His 
brown  eyes  had  an  almost  doglike  wistfulness. 

"Quite,  thank  you."  Her  easy,  effortless  smile 
passed  across  her  face  and  in  and  out  of  her  eyes. 

Hudson  stood  beside  his  wheel  tapping  his  teeth 
and  staring  after  her.  The  rockers  on  the  veranda 


THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

stopped  their  rocking,  stopped  their  talking,  stopped 
their  breathing  to  see  Sheila  pass.  When  she  had 
gone,  they  fastened  their  attention  upon  Sylvester. 
He  was  not  aware  of  them.  He  stood  there  a  full 
three  minutes  under  the  glare  of  publicity.  Then  he 
sighed  and  climbed  into  his  car. 


CHAPTER  XH 

HUDSON'S  QUEEN 

THE  lobby,  empty  of  its  crowd  when  Sheila  passed 
through  it  on  her  way  up  to  her  rooms,  was  filled  by 
a  wheezy,  bullying  voice.  In  front  of  the  desk  a  little 
barrel  of  a  man  with  piggish  eyes  was  disputing  his 
bill  with  Dickie.  At  the  sound  of  Sheila's  entrance  he 
turned,  stopped  his  complaint,  watched  her  pass,  and 
spat  into  a  near-by  receptacle.  Sheila  remembered 
that  he  had  visited  the  bar  early  in  the  evening  be 
fore,  and  had  guzzled  his  whiskey  and  made  some 
wheezy  attempts  at  gallantry.  Dickie,  flushed,  his 
hair  at  wild  odds  with  composure,  was  going  over  the 
bill.  In  the  midst  of  his  calculations  the  man  would 
interrupt  him  with  a  plump  dirty  forefinger  pounced 
upon  the  paper.  "Wassa  meanin*  of  this  item,  frin- 
stance?  Highway  robbery,  thassa  meanin'  of  it.  My 
wife  take  breakfast  in  her  room?  I'd  like  to  see  her 
try  it!" 

Sheila  went  upstairs.  She  took  off  her  things, 
washed  off  the  dust,  and  changed  into  the  black-and- 
white  barmaid's  costume,  fastening  the  frilly  apron, 
the  cuffs,  the  delicate  fichu  with  mechanical  care. 
She  put  on  the  silk  stockings  and  the  buckled  shoes 
and  the  tiny  cap.  Then  she  went  into  her  sitting- 
room,  chose  the  most  dignified  chair,  folded  her 


124 

hands  in  her  lap,  and  waited  for  Dickie.  Waiting,  she 
looked  out  through  the  window  and  saw  the  glow 
fade  from  the  snowy  crest  of  The  Hill.  The  evening 
star  let  itself  delicately  down  through  the  sweeping 
shadows  of  the  earth  from  some  mysterious  fastness 
of  invisibility.  The  room  was  dim  when  Dickie's 
knock  made  her  turn  her  head. 

"Come  in." 

He  appeared,  shut  the  door  without  looking  at  her, 
then  came  unwillingly  across  the  carpet  and  stopped 
at  about  three  steps  from  her  chair,  standing  with 
one  hand  in  his  pocket.  He  had  slicked  down  his  hair 
with  a  wet  brush  and  changed  his  suit.  It  was  the 
dark-blue  serge  he  had  worn  at  the  dance  five  months 
before.  What  those  five  months  had  been  to  Dickie, 
through  what  abasements  and  exaltations,  furies 
and  despairs  he  had  traveled  since  he  had  looked  up 
from  Sheila's  slippered  feet  with  his  heart  turned 
backward  like  a  pilot's  wheel,  was  only  faintly  in 
dicated  in  his  face.  And  yet  the  face  gave  Sheila  a 
pang.  And,  unsupported  by  anger,  he  was  far  from 
formidable,  a  mere  youth.  Sheila  wondered  at  her 
long  and  sustained  persecution  of  him.  She  smiled, 
her  lips,  her  eyes,  and  her  heart. 

"Are  n't  you  going  to  sit  down,  Dickie?  This 
is  n't  a  school  examination." 

"If  it  was,"  said  Dickie,  with  an  uncertain  attempt 
at  ease,  "I  would  n't  pass."  He  felt  for  a  chair  and 
got  into  it.  He  caught  a  knee  in  his  hand  and  looked 


HUDSON'S  QUEEN  125 

about  him.  "You've  made  the  room  awful  pretty, 
Sheila." 

She  had  spent  some  of  the  rather  large  pay  she 
drew  upon  coverings  of  French  blue  for  the  plush 
furniture,  upon  a  dainty  yellow  porcelain  tea-set, 
upon  little  oddments  of  decoration.  The  wall-paper 
and  carpet  were  inoffensive,  the  quietest  probably  in 
Millings,  so  that  her  efforts  had  met  with  some  suc 
cess.  There  was  a  lounge  with  cushions,  there  were 
some  little  volumes,  a  picture  of  her  father,  a  bowl 
of  pink  wild  roses,  a  vase  of  vivid  cactus  flowers. 
Some  sketches  in  water-color  —  Marcus's  most  happy 
medium  —  had  been  tacked  up.  A  piece  of  tapestry 
decorated  the  back  of  the  chair  Sheila  had  chosen.  In 
the  dim  light  it  all  had  an  air  of  quiet  richness.  It 
seemed  a  room  transplanted  to  Millings  from  some 
finer  soil. 

Dickie  looked  at  the  tapestry  because  it  was  the 
nearest  he  dared  come  to  looking  at  Sheila.  His  hands 
and  knees  shook  with  the  terrible  beating  of  his 
heart.  It  was  not  right,  thought  Dickie  resentfully, 
that  any  feeling  should  take  hold  of  a  fellow  and 
shake  and  terrify  him  so.  He  threw  himself  back  sud 
denly  and  folded  his  arms  tight  across  his  chest. 

"You  wanted  to  see  me  about  something?"  he 
asked. 

"Yes.  I'll  give  you  some  tea  first." 

Dickie's  lips  fell  apart.  He  said  neither  yea  nor 
nay,  but  watched  dazedly  her  preparations,  her  con- 


126  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

coctions,  her  advance  upon  him  with  a  yellow  tea 
cup  and  a  wafer.  He  did  not  stand  up  to  take  it  and 
he  knew  too  late  that  this  was  a  blunder.  He  tingled 
with  shame. 

Sheila  went  back  to  her  chair  and  sipped  from  her 
own  cup. 

"I've  been  angry  with  you  for  three  months  now, 
Dickie." 

"Yes'm,"  he  said  meekly. 

"That's  the  longest  I've  ever  been  angry  with  any 
one  in  my  life.  Once  I  hated  a  teacher  for  two  weeks, 
and  it  almost  killed  me.  But  what  I  felt  about  her 
was  —  was  weakness  to  the  way  I  've  felt  about  you." 

"Yes'm,"  again  said  Dickie.  His  tea  was  terribly 
hot  and  burnt  his  tongue,  so  that  tears  stood  in  his 
eyes. 

"And  I  suppose  you've  been  angry  with  me." 

"No,  ma'am." 

Sheila  was  not  particularly  pleased  with  this  gentle 
reply.  "Why,  Dickie,  you  know  you  have!" 

"No,  ma'am." 

"Then  why  have  n't  you  spoken  to  me?  Why  have 
you  looked  that  way  at  me?" 

"I  don't  speak  to  folks  that  don't  speak  to  me," 
said  Dickie,  lifting  the  wafer  as  though  its  extreme 
lightness  was  faintly  repulsive  to  him. 

"Well,"  said  Sheila  bitterly,  "you  haven't  been 
alone  in  your  attitude.  Very  few  people  have  been 
speaking  to  me.  My  only  loyal  friends  are  Mr.  Hud- 


HUDSON'S  QUEEN  127 

son  and  Amelia  Flecks  and  Carthy  and  Jim.  Jim 
made  no  promises  about  being  my  guardian,  but  — 

"But  he  is  your  guardian?"  Dickie  drawled  the 
question  slightly.  His  gift  of  faint  irony  and  imper 
sonal  detachment  flicked  Sheila's  temper  as  it  had 
always  flicked  his  father's. 

"Jim  is  my  friend,"  Sheila  maintained  in  defiance 
of  a  still,  small  voice.  "He  has  given  me  a  pony  and 
has  taken  me  riding  - 

"Yes'm,  I've  saw  you-  "  Dickie's  English  was 
peculiarly  fallible  in  moments  of  emotion.  Now  he 
seemed  determined  to  cut  Sheila's  description  short. 
"Say,  Sheila,  did  you  send  for  me  to  tell  me  about 
this  lovely  friendship  of  yours  with  Jim?" 

Sheila  set  her  cup  down  on  the  window-sill.  She 
did  not  want  to  lose  her  temper  with  Dickie.  She 
brushed  a  wafer  crumb  from  her  knee. 

"No,  Dickie,  I  didn't.  I  sent  for  you  because, 
after  all,  though  I've  been  so  angry  with  you,  I've 
known  in  my  heart  that  —  that  —  you  are  a  loyal 
friend  and  that  you  tell  the  truth." 

This  admission  was  an  effort.  Sheila's  pride  suf 
fered  to  the  point  of  bringing  a  dim  sound  of  tears 
into  her  voice  .  .  . 

Dickie  did  not  speak.  He  too  put  down  his  tea-cup 
and  his  wafer  side  by  side  on  the  floor  near  his  chair. 
He  put  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  bent  his  head 
down  as  though  he  were  examining  his  thin,  locked 
hands. 


128  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

Sheila  waited  for  a  long  minute;  then  she  said 
angrily,  "Are  n't  you  glad  I  think  that  of  you?" 

"  Yes'm."  Dickie's  voice  was  indistinct. 

"You  don't  seem  glad." 

Dickie  made  some  sort  of  struggle.  Sheila  could 
not  quite  make  out  its  nature.  "I'm  glad.  I'm  so 
glad  that  it  kind  of  —  hurts,"  he  said. 

"Oh!"  That  at  least  was  pleasant  intelligence  to 
a  wounded  pride. 

Fortified,  Sheila  began  the  real  business  of  the  inter 
view.  "You  are  not  an  artist,  Dickie,"  she  said,  "and 
you  don't  understand  why  your  father  asked  me  to 
work  at  The  Aura  nor  why  I  wanted  to  work  there. 
It  was  your  entire  inability  to  understand  - 

"Entire  inability  —  "  whispered  Dickie  as  though 
he  were  taking  down  the  phrase  with  an  intention 
of  looking  it  up  later. 

This  confused  Sheila.  "Your  —  your  entire  in 
ability,"  she  repeated  rapidly,  "your  —  your  entire 
inability  - 

"Yes'm.  I've  got  that." 

" —  To  understand  that  made  me  so  angry  that 
day."  Sheila  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  that  obstruction. 
She  had  planned  this  speech  rather  carefully  in  the 
watches  of  the  wakeful,  feverish  morning  which  had 
been  her  night.  "You  seemed  to  be  trying  to  pull 
your  father  and  me  down  to  some  lower  spiritual 
level  of  your  own." 

"Lower  spiritual  level,"  repeated  Dickie. 


HUDSON'S  QUEEN  129 

"Dickie,  stop  that,  please!" 

He  looked  up,  startled  by  her  sharpness.  "Stop 
what,  ma'am?" 

"Saying  things  after  me.  It's  insufferable." 

"Insufferable  —  oh,  I  suppose  it  is.  You're  usin' 
so  many  words,  Sheila.  I  kind  of  forgot  there  was 
so  many  words  as  you're  makin'  use  of  this  after 
noon." 

"Oh,  Dickie,  Dickie!  Can't  you  see  how  miserable 
I  am !  I  am  so  unhappy  and  —  and  scared,  and  you 
—  you  are  making  fun  of  me." 

At  that,  spoken  in  a  changed  and  quavering  key 
of  helplessness,  Dickie  hurried  to  her,  knelt  down 
beside  her  chair,  and  took  her  hands. 

"Sheila!  I '11  do  any  thing!" 

His  presence,  his  boyish,  quivering  touch,  so  with 
held  from  anything  but  boyishness,  even  the  im 
pulsive  humility  of  his  thin,  kneeling  body,  were  in 
expressibly  soothing,  inexpressibly  comforting.  She 
did  not  draw  away  her  hands.  She  let  them  cling  to 
his. 

"Dickie,  will  you  answer  me,  quite  truthfully  and 
simply,  without  any  explaining  or  softening,  please, 
if  I  ask  you  a  —  a  dreadful  question?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"I'm  not  sure  if  it  is  a  dreadful  question,  but  — 
but  I'm  afraid  it  is." 

"Don't  worry.  Ask  me.  Surely,  I'll  answer  you  the 
truth  without  any  fixin's." 


130  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

Her  hands  clung  a  little  closer.  She  was  silent, 
gathering  courage.  He  felt  her  slim  knees  quiver. 

"What  do  they  mean,  Dickie,"  she  whispered  with 
a  wan  look,  "when  they  call  me  —  'Hudson's 
Queen'?" 

Dickie  bent  from  her  look  as  though  he  felt  a  pain. 
He  took  her  hands  up  close  to  his  breast.  "Who  told 
you  that  they  called  you  that?"  he  asked  breath 
lessly. 

"That's  what  every  one  calls  me  —  the  men  over 
in  the  Big  Horn  country  —  they  tell  men  that  are 
coming  to  Millings  to  be  sure  to  look  up- '  Hudson's 
Queen.'  Do  they  mean  the  Hotel,  Dickie?  They  do 
mean  the  Hotel,  don't  they,  Dickie?  —  that  I  am 
The  Hudson's  Queen?" 

The  truth  sometimes  presents  itself  like  a  wither 
ing  flame.  Dickie  got  up,  put  away  her  hands,  walked 
up  and  down,  then  came  back  to  her.  He  had  heard 
the  epithet  and  he  knew  its  meaning.  He  wrestled 
now  with  his  longing  to  keep  her  from  such  under 
standing,  or,  at  least,  to  soften  it.  She  had  asked  for 
the  clear  truth  and  he  had  promised  it  to  her.  He 
stood  away  because  he  could  not  trust  himself  to 
endure  the  wincing  of  her  hands  and  body  when  she 
heard  the  truth.  He  hoped  dimly  that  she  might  not 
understand  it. 

"They  don't  mean  the  Hotel,  Sheila,"  he  said 
harshly.  "They  mean  —  Father.  You  know  now 
what  they  mean  —  ?  "  In  her  stricken  and  bewildered 


HUDSON'S  QUEEN  131 

eyes  he  saw  that  she  did  know.  "I  would  like  to  kill 
them,"  sobbed  Dickie  suddenly.  "I  would  like  to  kill 
—  him.  No,  no,  Sheila,  don't  you  cry.  Don't  you. 
It's  not  worth  cryin'  for.  It's  jest  ignorant  folks's 
ignorant  and  stupid  talk.  It's  not  worth  cryin'  for.' 
He  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  her  chair  and  fairly  gath 
ered  her  into  his  arms.  He  rocked  and  patted  her 
shoulder  and  kissed  her  gently  on  her  hair  —  all  with 
that  boyishness,  that  brotherliness,  that  vast  restraint 
so  that  she  could  not  even  guess  the  strange  and  un 
imaginable  pangs  he  suffered  from  his  self-control. 

Before  Dickie's  resolution  was  burnt  away  by  the 
young  inner  fire,  Sheila  withdrew  herself  gently  from 
his  arms  and  got  up  from  the  chair.  She  walked  over 
to  one  of  the  two  large  windows  —  the  sunset  win 
dows  she  called  them,  in  contradistinction  to  the  one 
sunrise  window  —  and  stood  composing  herself,  her 
hands  twisted  together  and  lifted  to  the  top  of  the 
lower  sash,  her  forehead  rested  on  them. 

A  rattle  of  china,  a  creaking  step  outside  the  door, 
interrupted  their  tremulous  silence  in  which  who 
knows  what  mysterious  currents  were  passing  be 
tween  their  young  minds. 

"It's  my  dinner,"  said  Sheila,  and  Dickie  walked 
over  mechanically  and  opened  the  door. 

Amelia  Flecks  came  panting  into  the  room,  set  the 
tray  down  on  a  small  table,  and  looked  contempt  at 
Dickie. 

"There  now,  Miss  Arundel,"  she  said  with  breath- 


132  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

less  tenderness,  "I've  pro-cured  a  dandy  chop  for 
you.  You  said  you  was  kind  of  famished  for  a  lamb 
chop,  and,  of  course,  in  a  sheep  country  good  mut 
ton  's  real  hard  to  come  by,  and  this  ain't  properly 
speaking  —  lamb,  but — !  Well,  say,  it's  just  dandy 
meat." 

She  ignored  Dickie  as  one  might  ignore  the  pres 
ence  of  some  obnoxious  insect  in  the  reception-room 
of  a  queen.  Her  eyes  were  disgustedly  fascinated  by 
his  presence,  but  in  her  conversation  she  would  not 
admit  this  preoccupation  of  disgust. 

"I'll  be  going,"  said  Dickie. 

Amelia  nodded  as  one  who  applauds  the  becoming 
move  of  an  inferior. 

"Here's  a  note  for  you,  Miss  Arundel,"  she  said, 
coming  over  to  Sheila's  post  at  the  window,  where 
she  was  trying  to  hide  the  traces  of  her  tears.  "Well, 
say,  who's  been  botherin'  you?"  Amelia's  voice  went 
down  a  long,  threatening  octave  to  a  sinister  bass 
note,  at  the  voicing  of  which  she  turned  to  look  at 
Dickie. 

"Good-night,  Sheila,"  he  said  diffidently;  and 
Sheila  coming  quickly  toward  him,  put  out  her  hand. 
The  note  Amelia  had  handed  her  fell.  Dickie  and 
Amelia  both  bent  to  pick  it  up. 

"No,  you  don't,"  said  Amelia,  snatching  it  and 
accusing  him,  by  her  tone,  of  inexpressibly  base  in 
tentions.  "Say,  Miss  Arundel,"  in  a  whisper  of  thrilled 
confidence,  ''Mister  Jim!  Uh?" 


HUDSON'S  QUEEN  133 

"Thank  you,  Dickie,"  murmured  Sheila,  half-em 
barrassed,  half-amused  by  her  adoring  follower's  in 
nuendoes.  "Thank  you  for  everything.  I  shall  have 
to  think  what  I  can  do  ...  Good-night." 

Dickie,  his  eyes  forcibly  held  away  from  Jim's  note, 
murmured,  "Good-night,  ma'am,"  and  went  out, 
closing  the  door  with  exaggerated  gentleness.  The 
quietness  of  his  departure  seemed  to  spare  Sheila's 
sensitiveness. 

"Ain't  he  a  worm,  though!"  exclaimed  Amelia, 
sparing  nobody's  sensitiveness. 

"He's  nothing  of  the  sort,"  Sheila  protested  in 
dignantly.  "He  is  a  dear!" 

Amelia  opened  her  prominent  eyes  and  pursed  her 
lips.  A  reassuring  light  dawned  on  her  bewilderment. 
"Oh,  say,  dearie,  I  was  n't  speakin*  of  your  Mister 
Jim.  I  was  makin'  reference  to  Dickie." 

Sheila  thrust  the  note  into  her  pocket  and  went 
over  to  the  table  to  light  her  lamp.  "I  know  quite 
well  that  you  meant  Dickie,"  she  said.  "Nobody  in 
Millings  would  ever  dream  of  comparing  Mr.  James 
Greely  to  a  worm,  even  if  he  came  out  from  the 
ground  just  in  time  for  the  early  bird  to  peck  him. 
I  know  that." 

"You're  ornery  to-night,  dearie,"  announced 
Amelia,  and  with  exemplary  tact  she  creaked  and 
breathed  herself  to  the  door.  There  she  had  a  relapse 
from  tactfulness,  however,  and  planted  herself  to 
Stare.  "Ain't  you  goin'  to  read  your  note?" 


134  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

Sheila,  to  be  rid  of  her,  unfolded  the  paper  and  read. 
It  was  quite  beautifully  penned  in  green  ink  on  vio 
let  paper.  Jim  had  written  both  wisely  and  too  well. 

"My  darling  —  Why  not  permit  me  to  call  you 
that  when  it  is  the  simple  and  sincere  truth?"  An 
astonished  little  voice  in  Sheila's  brain  here  seemed 
to  counter-question  mechanically  "Why  not,  in 
deed?"  -  "I  cannot  think  of  anything  but  you  and 
how  I  love  you.  These  little  notes  I  am  going  to  keep 
a-sending  you  are  messengers  of  love.  You  will  never 
meet  with  a  more  tremendous  lover  than  me.  .  .  .  Be 
my  Queen,"  Jim  had  written  with  a  great  climatic 
splash  of  ink,  and  he  had  signed  himself,  "Your 
James." 

Sheila's  face  was  crimson  when  she  put  down  the 
note.  She  stared  straight  in  front  of  her  for  an  instant 
with  very  large  eyes  in  this  scarlet  rose  of  counte 
nance  and  then  she  crumpled  into  mirth.  She  put  her 
face  into  her  hands  and  rocked.  It  seemed  as  though 
a  giant  of  laughter  had  caught  her  about  the  ribs. 

Amelia  stared  and  felt  a  wound.  She  swallowed  a 
lump  of  balked  sentiment  as  she  went  out.  Her  idol 
was  faintly  tarnished,  her  heroine's  stature  precept- 
ibly  diminished.  The  sort  of  Madame  du  Barry  at 
mosphere  with  which  Sheila's  image  was  surrounded 
in  Amelia's  fancy  lost  a  little  of  its  rosy  glow.  The 
favorite  of  Kings,  the  amorita  of  Dukes,  does  not 
rock  with  laughter  over  scented  notes  from  a  High 
Desirable. 


HUDSON'S  QUEEN  135 

"She  ain't  just  quite  up  to  it,"  was  Amelia's  com 
ment,  which  she  probably  could  not  have  explained 
even  to  herself. 

Sheila  presently  was  done  with  laughter.  She  ate 
a  nibble  of  dinner  as  soberly  as  Amelia  could  have 
wished,  then  sat  back,  her  eyes  closed  with  a  resolve 
to  think  clearly,  closely,  to  some  determination  of  her 
life.  But  Jim's  note,  which  had  so  roused  her  amuse 
ment,  began  to  force  itself  in  another  fashion  upon 
her.  She  discovered  that  it  was  an  insufferable  note. 
It  insinuated  everything,  it  suggested  —  everything. 
It  was  a  boastful  messenger.  It  swaggered  male- 
ishly.  It  threw  out  its  chest  and  smacked  its  lips. 
"See  what  a  sad  dog  my  master  is,"  it  said;  "a 
regular  devil  of  a  fellow."  Sheila  found  her  thoughts 
confused  by  anger.  She  found  that  she  was  too  dis 
turbed  for  any  clear  decision.  She  was  terribly  weary 
and  full  of  dread  for  the  long  night  before  her.  And 
a  startled  look  at  her  clock  told  her  it  was  time  now 
to  go  over  to  the  saloon. 

She  got  up,  went  to  her  mirror,  smoothed  her  rip 
pled  hair  with  two  strokes  of  a  brush,  readjusted  her 
cap,  and  decided  that,  for  once,  a  little  powder  on  the 
nose  was  a  necessity.  Carthy  must  not  see  that  she 
had  been  crying.  As  it  was,  her  brilliant  color  was 
suspicious,  and  her  eyes,  with  their  deep  distended 
look  of  tears.  She  shut  them,  drew  a  breath,  put  out 
her  light,  and  went  down  the  back  stairs  to  a  narrow 
alley.  It  led  from  the  hotel  to  the  street  that  ran 


136  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

back  of  The  Aura  .  .  .  the  street  to  which  she  had 
taken  young  Hilliard  the  night  before. 

The  alley  seemed  to  Sheila,  as  she  stepped  into  it 
from  the  glare  of  the  electric-lighted  hotel,  a  stream  of 
cool  and  silvery  light.  Above  lay  a  strip  of  tender 
sky  in  which  already  the  stars  shook.  In  this  high 
atmosphere  they  were  always  tremulous,  dancing, 
beating,  almost  leaping,  with  a  fullness  of  quick 
light.  They  seemed  very  near  to  the  edges  of  the  alley 
walls,  to  be  especially  visiting  it  with  their  detached 
regard,  peering  down  for  some  small  divine  occasion 
for  influence.  Sheila  prayed  to  them  a  desperate 
prayer  of  human  helplessness. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SYLVESTER  CELEBRATES 
"HEY,  you  girl  there!  Hi!  Hey!" 

These  exclamations  called  in  a  resonant,  deep- 
chested  voice  succeeded  at  last  in  attracting  Sheila's 
attention.  She  had  lingered  at  the  alley's  mouth, 
shirking  her  entrance  into  the  saloon,  and  now  she 
saw,  halfway  down  the  short,  wide  street,  a  gesticu 
lating  figure. 

At  first,  as  she  obeyed  the  summons,  she  thought 
the  summoner  a  man,  but  on  near  view  it  proved 
itself  a  woman,  of  broad,  massive  hips  and  shoulders, 
dressed  in  a  man's  flannel  shirt  and  a  pair  of  large 
corduroy  trousers,  their  legs  tucked  into  high  cow 
boy  boots.  She  wore  no  hat,  and  her  hair  was  cut 
square  across  her  neck  and  forehead;  hair  of  a  dark 
rusty  red,  it  was,  and  matched  eyes  like  dark  panes 
of  glass  before  a  fire,  red-brown  and  very  bright, 
ruddy  eyes  in  a  square,  ruddy  face,  which,  with  its 
short,  straight,  wide-bridged  nose,  well-shaped  lips, 
square  chin,  and  brilliant  teeth,  made  up  a  striking 
and  not  unattractive  countenance. 

"I've  got  a  horse  here;  won't  stand,"  said  the 
woman.  "Will  you  hold  his  head?  Can  leaking  back 
here  in  my  wagon,  leaking  all  over  my  other  stuff." 

The  horse  came  round  the  corner.  He  moved  reso- 


138 

lutely  to  meet  them.  He  was  the  boniest,  small  horse 
Sheila  had  ever  seen  —  a  shadow  of  a  horse,  one- 
eyed,  morose,  embittered.  The  harness  hung  loose 
upon  his  meagerness;  the  shafts  stuck  up  like  the 
points  of  a  large  collar  on  a  small  old  man. 

"He's  not  running  away,"  explained  the  owner 
superfluously.  "It's  just  that  he  can't  stop.  You'd 
think,  to  look  at  him,  that  stopping  would  be  his 
favorite  sport.  But  you'd  be  mistaken.  Go  he  must. 
He 's  kind  of  always  crazy  to  get  there  —  Lord  knows 
where  —  probably  to  the  end  of  his  life." 

Sheila  held  the  horse,  and  rubbed  his  nose  with 
her  small  and  gentle  hand.  The  creature  drooped 
under  the  caress  and  let  its  lower  lip,  with  a  few  stiff 
white  hairs,  hang  and  quiver  bitterly.  It  half-closed 
its  one  useful  eye,  a  pale  eye  of  intense,  colorless 
disillusionment. 

When  the  wagon  stopped,  a  dog  who  was  trotting 
under  it  stopped  too  and  lay  down  in  the  dust,  pant 
ing.  Sheila  bent  her  head  a  little  to  see  the  dog.  She 
had  a  child's  intense  interest  in  animals.  Through 
the  dimness  she  made  out  a  big,  wolfish  creature  with 
a  splendid,  clean,  gray  coat,  his  pointed  nose,  short, 
pointed  ears,  deep,  wild  eyes,  and  scarlet  tongue,  set 
in  a  circular  ruff  of  black.  His  bushy  tail  curled  up 
over  his  back. 

"What kind  of  dog  is  that? "  asked  Sheila,  thinking 
the  great  animal  under  the  wagon  better  fitted  to  pull 
the  load  than  the  shadowy  little  horse  in  front  of  it. 


SYLVESTER  CELEBRATES  139 

"Quarter  wolf,"  answered  the  woman  in  her  casual 
manner  of  speech,  her  resonant  voice  falling  pleasantly 
on  the  light  coolness  of  the  evening  air;  "Malamute. 
This  fellow  was  littered  on  the  body  of  a  dead 
man." 

Sheila  had  also  the  child's  interest  in  tales.  "Tell 
me  about  it,"  she  begged  fervently. 

The  woman  stopped  in  her  business  of  tying  down 
a  canvas  cover  over  her  load  and  gave  Sheila  an 
amused  and  searching  look.  She  held  an  iron  spike 
between  her  teeth,  but  spoke  around  it  skillfully. 

"Arctic  exploration  it  was.  My  brother  was  one  of 
the  party.  'T  was  he  brought  me  home  Berg.  Berg's 
mother  was  one  of  the  sledge  dogs.  Party  was  ship 
wrecked,  starved,  most  of  the  dogs  eaten,  one  man 
dead.  Berg's  mother  littered  on  the  body  one  night. 
Next  morning  they  were  rescued  and  the  new  fam 
ily  was  saved.  Otherwise  I  guess  they'd  have  had 
a  puppy  stew  and  Berg  and  his  wife  and  family 
would  n't  be  earning  their  living  with  me." 

"How  do  they  earn  their  living?"  asked  Sheila, 
still  peering  at  the  hero  of  the  tale. 

"They  pull  my  sled  about  winters,  Hidden  Creek." 

"Oh,  you  live  in  the  Hidden  Creek  country?" 

"Yes.  Got  a  ranch  up  not  far  from  the  source.  Ever 
been  over  The  Hill?" 

She  came  toward  Sheila,  gathered  the  reins  into  her 
strong,  broad  hands,  held  them  in  her  teeth,  and  be 
gan  to  pull  on  her  canvas  gloves.  She  talked  with  the 


140  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

reins  between  her  teeth  as  she  had  with  the  spike, 
her  enunciation  triumphantly  forceful  and  distinct. 

"Some  day,  I'm  coming  over  The  Hill,"  said 
Sheila,  less  successful  with  a  contraction  in  her  throat. 

The  woman  made  a  few  strides.  Now  she  was  look 
ing  shrewdly,  close  into  Sheila's  face. 

"You're  a  biscuit-shooter  at  the  hotel?" 

"No.  I  work  in  the  saloon." 

"In  the  saloon?  Oh,  sure.  Barmaid.  I've  heard 
of  you." 

Here  she  put  a  square  finger-tip  under  Sheila's 
chin  and  looked  even  closer  than  before.  "Not  happy, 
are  you?"  she  said.  She  moved  away  abruptly. 
"Tired  of  town  life.  Been  crying.  Well,  when  you 
want  to  pull  out,  come  over  to  my  ranch.  I  need  a 
girl.  I  'm  kind  of  lonesome  winters.  It 's  a  pretty  place 
if  you  are  n't  looking  for  street-lamps  and  talking- 
machines.  You  don't  hear  much  more  than  coyotes 
and  the  river  and  the  pines  and,  if  you  're  looking  for 
high  lights,  you  can  sure  see  the  stars  ..." 

She  climbed  up  to  her  seat,  using  the  hub  of  her 
wheel  for  a  foothold,  and  springing  with  surprising 
agility  and  strength. 

Sheila  stepped  aside  and  the  horse  started  instantly. 
She  made  a  few  hurried  steps  to  keep  up. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  looking  up  into  the  ruddy 
eyes  that  looked  down.  "I'll  remember  that.  What  is 
your  name?" 

"Christina  Blake,  Miss  Blake.  I'll  make  The  Hill 


141 

before  morning  if  I'm  lucky.  Less  dust  and  heat  by 
night  and  the  horse  has  loafed  since  morning.  .  .  . 
I  mean  that  about  coming  to  my  place.  Any  time. 
Good-bye  to  you." 

She  smiled  a  smile  as  casual  in  its  own  way  as 
Sheila's  own.  Berg,  under  the  wagon,  trotted  silently. 
He  looked  neither  to  right  nor  left.  His  wild,  deep-set 
eyes  were  fastened  on  the  heels  of  the  small  horse. 
He  looked  as  though  he  were  trotting  relentlessly  to 
ward  some  wolfish  goal  of  satisfied  hunger.  A  little 
cloud  of  dust  rose  up  from  the  wrheels  and  stood  be 
tween  Sheila  and  the  wagon.  She  conquered  an  im 
pulse  to  run  after  it,  shut  her  hand  tight,  and  walked 
in  at  the  back  door  of  the  saloon. 

A  teamster,  with  a  lean,  fatherly  face,  his  mouth 
veiled  by  a  shaggy  blond  mustache,  his  eyes  as  blue 
as  larkspur,  smiled  at  her  across  the  bar. 

"Hullo,"  said  he.  "How's  your  pony?" 

Sheila  had  struck  up  one  of  her  sudden  friendships 
with  this  man,  who  visited  the  saloon  at  regular  inter 
vals.  This  question  warmed  her  heart.  The  little  pony 
of  Jim's  giving  was  dear.  She  thought  of  his  soft  eyes 
and  snuggling  nose  almost  as  often  and  as  fondly  as 
a  lover  thinks  of  the  face  of  his  lady. 

"Tuck's  splendid,  Mr.  Thatcher,"  she  said,  lean 
ing  her  elbows  on  the  bar  and  cupping  her  chin  in  her 
hands.  Her  face  was  bright  with  its  tender,  Puckish 
look.  "He's  too  cute.  He  can  take  sugar  out  of  my 
apron  pocket.  And  he'll  shake  hands.  I'd  just  love 


142  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

you  to  see  him.  Will  you  be  here  to-morrow  after 
noon?" 

"No,  ma'am.  I'm  pullin'  out  about  sunup.  Round 
the  time  you  tumble  into  bed.  Got  to  make  The  Hill." 

"How's  your  baby?" 

A  shining  smile  rewarded  her  interest  in  the  re 
cent  invalid.  "Fine  and  dandy.  You  ought  to  see  her 
walk!" 

"Is  n't  that  splendid!  And  how's  the  little  boy?  Is 
he  with  you?" 

"No,  ma'am.  I  kind  o'  left  him  to  mind  the  ranch. 
He's  gettin'  to  be  a  real  rancher,  that  boy.  He  was 
sure  sorry  not  to  make  Hidden  Creek  this  trip, 
though.  Say,  he  was  sot  on  seein'  you.  I  told  him 
about  you." 

Sheila's  face  flamed  and  her  eyes  smarted.  Grat 
itude  and  shame  possessed  her.  This  man,  then,  did 
not  speak  of  her  as  "Hudson's  Queen"  -  not  if  he 
told  his  boy  about  her.  She  turned  away  to  hide  the 
flame  and  smart.  When  she  looked  back,  Sylvester 
himself  stood  at  Thatcher's  elbow.  He  very  rarely 
came  into  the  saloon.  At  sight  of  him  Sheila's  heart 
leaped  as  though  it  had  been  struck. 

"Say,  Sheila,"  he  murmured,  "I'm  celebratin'  to 
night." 

She  tried  to  dismiss  from  her  mind  its  new  and 
ugly  consciousness.  She  tried  to  smile.  The  result  was 
an  expression  strange  enough. 

Sylvester,  however,  missed  it.  He  was  dressed  in 


SYLVESTER  CELEBRATES  143 

one  of  the  brown  checked  suits,  a  new  one,  freshly 
creased ;  there  was  a  red  wild-rose  bud  in  his  button 
hole.  The  emerald  gleamed  on  his  well-kept,  sallow 
hand.  He  was  sipping  from  his  glass  and  had  put  a 
confidential  hand  on  Thatcher's  shoulder.  He  grinned 
at  Carthy. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  said,  "nobody  has  in-quired  as  to 
my  celebration.  But  I  'm  not  proud.  I  '11  tell  you.  I  'm 
celebratin'  to-night  the  winnin'  of  a  bet." 

"That's  sure  a  deservin'  cause,"  said  Thatcher. 

"Yes,  sir.  Had  a  bet  with  Carthy  here.  Look  at 
him  blush!  Carthy  sure-ly  hates  to  be  wrong.  And 
he's  mostly  right  in  his  prog-nos-ti-cations.  He  sure 
is.  You  bet  yer.  That's  why  I'm  so  festive." 

"  What  'd  he  prognosticate?  "  asked  Thatcher  oblig 
ingly.  He  had  moved  his  shoulder  away  from  Hud 
son's  hand. 

Sylvester  wrinkled  his  upper  lip  into  its  smile  and 
looked  down  into  his  glass.  He  turned  his  emerald. 

"Carthy  prophesied  that  about  this  time  a  little 
—  er  —  dream  —  of  mine  would  go  bust,"  said  Hud 
son.  He  lifted  up  his  eyes  pensively  to  Sheila,  first 
his  eyes  and  then  his  glass.  "Here's  to  my  dream  — 
you,  girl,"  he  said  softly. 

He  drank  with  his  eyes  upon  her  face,  drew  a  deep 
breath,  and  looked  about  the  room. 

Thatcher  glanced  from  him  to  Sheila.  "Good 
night  to  you,  ma'am,"  he  said  with  gentleness.  "Next 
time  I'll  bring  the  boy." 


144  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

"Please,  please  do." 

Sheila  put  her  hand  in  his.  He  looked  down  at  it 
as  though  something  had  startled  him.  In  fact,  her 
touch  was  like  a  flake  of  snow. 

When  Thatcher  had  gone,  Sylvester  leaned  closer 
to  her  across  the  bar.  He  moved  his  glass  around  in 
his  hand  and  looked  up  at  her  humbly. 

"The  tables  kind  of  turned,  eh?"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Hudson?"  Sheila,  by 
lifting  her  voice,  tried  to  dissipate  the  atmosphere  of 
confidence,  of  secrecy.  Carthy  had  moved  away  from 
them,  the  other  occupants  of  the  saloon  were  very 
apparently  not  listening. 

"Well,  ma'am,"  Sylvester  explained,  "six  months 
ago  I  was  kind  of  layin'  claim  to  gratitude  from  you, 
and  now  it's  the  other  way  round." 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "But  I  am  still  grateful."  The 
words  came,  however,  with  a  certain  unwillingness, 
a  certain  lack  of  spontaneity. 

"Are  you,  though?"  He  put  his  head  on  one  side 
so  that  Sheila  was  reminded  of  Dickie.  For  the  first 
time  a  sort  of  shadowy  resemblance  between  father 
and  son  was  apparent  to  her.  "Well,  you've  wiped 
the  reckonin'  off  the  slate  by  what  you've  done  for 
me.  You've  given  me  my  Aura.  Say,  you  have  been 
my  fairy  godmother,  all  right.  Talk  about  wishes 
comin'  true!" 

Again  he  looked  about  the  room,  and  that  wistful- 
ness  of  the  visionary  stole  into  his  face.  His  eyes  came 


SYLVESTER  CELEBRATES  145 

back  to  her  with  an  expression  that  was  almost  beau 
tiful.  "If  only  that  Englishman  was  here,"  he  sighed. 
"Yes,  ma'am.  I'm  sure  celebratin'  to-night!" 

It  was  soon  very  apparent  that  he  was  celebrating. 
For  an  hour  he  stood  every  newcomer  to  a  drink, 
and  then  he  withdrew  to  a  table  in  a  shadowy  corner, 
and  sitting  there,  tilted  against  the  wall,  he  sipped 
from  his  glass,  smoked  and  dreamed.  Hour  after  hour 
of  the  slow,  noisy  night  went  by  and  still  he  sat  there, 
watching  Sheila  through  the  smoke,  seeing  in  her, 
more  and  more  glowingly,  the  body  of  his  dream. 

It  was  after  dawn  when  Sheila  touched  Carthy's 
elbow.  The  big  Irishman  looked  down  at  her  small, 
drawn  face. 

"Mr.  Carthy,"  she  whispered,  "would  it  be  all 
right  if  I  went  home  now?  It's  earlier  than  usual,  but 
I'm  so  —  awfully  tired?" 

There  was  so  urgent  an  air  of  secrecy  in  her  man 
ner  that  Carthy  muttered  his  permission  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  mouth.  Sheila  melted  from  his  side. 

The  alley  that  had  been  silvery  cool  with  dusk  was 
now  even  more  silvery  cool  with  morning  twilight. 
Small  sunrise  clouds  were  winging  over  it  like  golden 
doves.  Sheila  did  not  look  at  them.  She  ran  breathless 
to  her  door,  opened  it,  and  found  herself  face  to  face 
with  Dickie. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  LIGHT  OF  DAWN 

THERE  was  a  light  of  dawn  in  the  room  and  through 
the  open  window  blew  in  the  keen  air  of  daybreak. 
Dickie  was  standing  quite  still  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor.  He  was  more  neat  and  groomed  than  Sheila 
had  ever  seen  him.  He  looked  as  though  he  had 
stepped  from  a  bath;  his  hair  was  sleek  and  wet  so 
that  it  was  dark  above  the  pure  pallor  of  his  face; 
his  suit  was  carefully  put  on;  his  cuffs  and  collar 
were  clean.  He  did  not  have  the  look  of  a  man  that 
has  been  awake  all  night,  nor  did  he  look  as  though 
he  had  ever  been  asleep.  His  face  and  eyes  were 
alight,  his  lips  firm  and  delicate  with  feeling. 

Before  him  Sheila  felt  old  and  stained.  The  smoke 
and  fumes  of  the  bar  hung  about  her.  She  was  shamed 
by  the  fresh  youthf ulness  of  his  slender,  eager  carriage 
and  of  his  eyes. 

"Dickie,"  she  faltered,  and  stood  against  the  door, 
drooping  wearily,  "what  are  you  doing  here  at  this 
hour?" 

"What  does  the  hour  matter?"  he  asked  impa 
tiently.  "Come  over  to  the  window.  I  want  you  to 
look  at  this  big  star.  I've  been  watching  it.  It's  al 
most  gone.  It 's  like  a  white  bird  flying  straight  into 
the  sun," 


THE  LIGHT  OF  DAWN  147 

He  was  imperative,  laid  his  cool  hand  upon  hers 
and  drew  her  to  the  window.  They  stood  facing  the 
sunrise. 

"Why  did  you  come  here?"  again  asked  Sheila. 
The  beauty  of  the  sky  only  deepened  her  misery  and 
shame. 

"Because  I  couldn't  wait  any  longer  than  one 
night.  It's  sure  been  an  awful  long  night  for  me, 
Sheila  .  .  .  Sheila  -  "  He  drew  the  hand  he  still  held 
close  to  him  with  a  trembling  touch  and  laid  his 
other  hand  over  it.  Then  she  felt  the  terrible  beating 
of  his  heart,  felt  that  he  was  shaking.  "Sheila,  I  love 
you."  She  had  hidden  her  face  against  the  curtain, 
had  turned  from  him.  She  felt  nothing  but  weariness 
and  shame.  She  was  like  a  leaden  weight  tied  coldly 
to  his  throbbing  youth.  Her  hand  under  his  was  hot 
and  lifeless  like  a  scorched  rose.  "I  want  you  to  come 
away  with  me  from  Millings.  You  can't  keep  on 
a-working  in  that  saloon.  You  can't  abear  to  have 
folks  saying  and  thinking  the  fool  things  they  do. 
And  I  can't  abear  it  even  if  you  can.  I'd  go  loco, 
and  kill.  Sheila,  I've  been  thinking  all  night,  just 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  my  bed  and  thinking.  Sheila, 
if  you  will  marry  me,  I  will  promise  you  to  take  care 
of  you.  I  won't  let  you  suffer  any.  I  will  die"  —  his 
voice  rocked  on  the  word,  spoken  with  an  awful  sin 
cerity  of  young  love  —  "before  I  let  you  suffer  any. 
If  you  could  love  me  a  little  bit"  —  he  stopped  as 
though  that  leaping  heart  had  sprung  up  into  his 


148  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

throat  —  "only  a  little  bit,  Sheila,"  he  whispered, 
"maybe—?" 

"I  can't,"  she  said.  "I  can't  love  you  that  way 
even  a  little  bit.  I  can't  marry  you,  Dickie.  I  wish  I 
could.  I  am  so  tired." 

She  drew  her  hand  away,  or  rather  it  fell  from  the 
slackening  grasp  of  his,  and  hung  at  her  side.  She 
looked  up  from  the  curtain  to  his  face.  It  was  still 
alight  and  tender  and  pale. 

"You're  real  sure,  Sheila,  that  you  never  could?  — 
that  you'd  rather  go  on  with  this  —  ?" 

She  pressed  all  the  curves  and  the  color  out  of  her 
lips,  still  looking  at  him,  and  nodded  her  head. 

"I  can't  stay  in  Millings,"  Dickie  said,  "and  work 
in  Poppa's  hotel  and  watch  this,  Sheila  —  unless, 
some  way,  I  can  help  you." 

"Then  you'd  better  go,"  she  said  lifelessly,  "be 
cause  I  can't  see  what  else  there  is  for  me  to  do.  Oh, 
I  shan't  go  on  with  it  for  very  long,  of  course  —  " 

He  came  an  eager  half -step  nearer.  "Then,  any 
way,  you  '11  let  me  go  away  and  work,  and  when  I  Ve 
kind  of  got  a  start,  you  '11  let  me  come  back  and  — 
and  see  if  —  if  you  feel  any  sort  of  —  different  from 
what  you  do  now?  It  would  n't  be  so  awful  long.  I'd 
work  like  —  like  Hell ! "  His  thin  hand  shot  into  a 
fist. 

Sheila's  lassitude  was  startled  by  his  word  into  a 
faint,  unwilling  smile. 

"Don't  laugh  at  me!"  he  cried  out. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  DAWN  149 

"Oh,  Dickie,  my  dear,  I'm  not  laughing.  I'm  so 
tired  I  can  hardly  stand.  And  truly  you  must  go  now. 
I'm  horrid  to  you.  I  always  am.  And  yet  I  do  like 
you  so  much.  And  you  are  such  a  dear.  And  I  feel 
there 's  something  great  about  you.  I  should  be  glad 
for  you  to  leave  Millings.  There  is  a  much  better 
chance  for  you  away  from  Millings.  I  feel  years  old 
to-day.  I  think  I've  grown  up  too  old  all  at  once 
and  missed  lovely  things  that  I  ought  to  have  had. 
Dickie"  —  she  gave  a  dry  sort  of  sob  —  "you  are 
one  of  the  lovely  things." 

His  arms  drew  gently  round  her.  "Let  me  kiss  you, 
Sheila,"  he  pleaded  with  tremulous  lips.  "I  want 
just  to  kiss  you  once  for  good-bye.  I'll  be  so  careful. 
If  you  knowed  how  I  feel,  you'd  let  me." 

She  lifted  up  her  mouth  like  an  obedient  child. 
Then,  back  of  Dickie,  she  saw  Sylvester's  face. 

It  was  more  sallow  than  usual;  its  upper  lip  was 
drawn  away  from  the  teeth  and  deeply  wrinkled ;  the 
eyes,  half-closed,  were  very  soft;  they  looked  as 
though  there  was  a  veil  across  their  pensiveness.  He 
caught  Dickie's  elbow  in  his  hand,  twisted  him  about, 
thrusting  a  knee  into  his  back,  and  with  his  other 
long,  bony  hand  he  struck  him  brutally  across  the 
face.  The  emerald  on  his  finger  caught  the  light  of 
the  rising  sun  and  flashed  like  a  little  stream  of  green 
fire. 

Dickie,  caught  unawares  by  superior  strength,  was 
utterly  defenseless.  He  writhed  and  struggled  vainly, 


150  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

gasping  under  the  blows.  Sylvester  forced  him  across 
the  room,  still  inflicting  punishment.  His  hand  made 
a  great  cracking  sound  at  every  slap. 

Sheila  hid  her  face  from  the  dreadful  sight.  "Oh, 
don't,  don't,  don't!"  she  wailed  again  and  again. 

Then  it  was  over.  Dickie  was  flung  out;  the  door 
was  locked  against  him  and  Sylvester  came  back 
across  the  floor. 

His  collar  stood  up  in  a  half-moon  back  of  his  ears, 
his  hair  fell  across  his  forehead,  his  face  was  flushed, 
his  lip  bled.  He  had  either  bitten  it  himself  or  Dickie 
had  struck  it.  But  he  seemed  quite  calm,  only  a  little 
breathless.  He  was  neither  snarling  nor  smiling  now. 
He  took  Sheila  very  gently  by  the  wrists,  drawing  her 
hands  down  from  her  face,  and  he  put  her  arms  at 
their  full  length  behind  her,  holding  them  there. 

"You  meet  Dickie  here  when  you  're  through  work, 
dream-girl,"  he  said  gently.  "You  kiss  Dickie  when 
you  leave  my  Aura,  you  little  beacon  light.  I've 
kept  my  hands  off  you  and  my  lips  off  you  and  my 
mind  off  you,  because  I  thought  you  were  too  fine 
and  good  for  anything  but  my  ideal.  And  all  this 
while  you've  been  sneaking  up  here  to  Dickie  and 
Jim  and  Lord  knows  who  else  besides.  Now,  I  am 
agoin'  to  kiss  you  and  then  you  gotta  get  out  of 
Millings.  Do  you  hear?  After  I've  kissed  you,  you 
ain't  good  enough  for  my  purpose  —  not  for  mine." 

Gathering  both  her  hands  in  one  of  his,  he  put  the 
hard,  long  fingers  of  his  free  hand  back  of  her  head. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  DAWN  151 

holding  it  from  wincing  or  turning  and  his  mouth 
dropped  upon  hers  and  seemed  to  smother  out  her 
life.  She  tasted  whiskey  and  the  blood  from  his  cut 
lips. 

"You  won't  tell  me,  anyway,  that  lie  again,"  he 
panted,  keeping  his  face  close,  staring  into  her  wide 
eyes  of  a  horrified  childishness  —  "that  you've  never 
been  kissed." 

Again  his  lips  fastened  on  her  mouth.  He  let  her 
go,  strode  to  the  door,  unlocked  it,  and  went  out. 

She  had  fallen  to  the  floor,  her  head  against  the 
chair.  She  beat  the  chair  with  her  hands,  calling 
softly  for  her  father  and  for  her  God.  She  reproached 
them  both.  "You  told  me  it  was  a  good  old  world,'* 
she  sobbed.  "You  told  me  it  was  a  good  old  world." 


CHAPTER  XV 

FLAMES 

A  HOT,  dry  day  followed  on  the  cool  dawn.  In  his 
room  Dickie  lay  across  his  bed.  The  sun  blazed  in  at 
his  single  long  window;  the  big  flies  that  had  risen 
from  the  dirty  yard  buzzed  and  bumped  against  the 
upper  pane  and  made  aimless,  endless,  mazy  circles 
above  and  below  one  another  in  the  stifling,  odorous 
atmosphere.  Dickie  lay  there  like  an  image  of  Icarus, 
an  eternal  symbol  of  defeated  youth;  one  could  al 
most  see  about  his  slenderness  the  trailing,  shattered 
wings.  He  had  wept  out  the  first  shock  of  his  anger 
and  his  shame;  now  he  lay  in  a  despairing  stupor. 
His  bruised  face  burned  and  ached;  his  chest  felt 
tight  with  the  aching  and  burning  of  his  heart.  Any 
suspicion  of  his  father's  interpretation  of  his  presence 
in  Sheila's  room  was  mercifully  spared  him,  but  the 
knowledge  that  he  had  been  brutally  jerked  back 
from  her  pure  and  patient  lips,  had  been  ignomin- 
iously  punished  before  her  eyes  and  turned  out  like 
a  whipped  boy  —  this  knowledge  was  a  dreadful  tor 
ture  to  his  pride.  Sheila,  to  be  sure,  did  not  love  him 
even  a  little  bit;  she  had  said  so.  All  the  longing  and 
the  tumult  of  his  heart  during  these  months  had 
made  no  more  impression  upon  her  than  a  frantic 
sea  makes  upon  the  little  bird  at  the  top  of  the  cliff. 


FLAMES  153 

She  had,  he  must  think,  hardly  been  aware  of  it.  And 
it  was  such  a  terrible  and  frantic  actuality.  He  had 
fancied  that  it  must  have  beaten  forever,  day  by  day, 
night  by  night,  at  her  consciousness.  Can  a  woman 
live  near  so  turbulent  a  thing  and  not  even  guess  at 
its  existence?  Her  hand  against  his  heart  had  lain 
so  limp  and  dead.  He  had  n't  hoped,  of  course,  that 
she  loved  him  the  way  he  loved.  Probably  no  one 
else  could  feel  what  he  felt  and  live  —  so  Dickie  in 
young  love's  eternal  fashion  believed  in  his  own 
miracle;  but  she  might  have  loved  him  a  little,  a  very 
little,  in  time  —  if  she  had  n't  seen  him  beaten  and 
shamed  and  cuffed  out  of  her  presence  like  a  dog. 
Now  there  was  no  hope.  No  hope  at  all.  No  hope. 
Dickie  rocked  his  head  against  his  arm.  He  had  told 
Sheila  that  he  would  take  care  of  her,  but  he  could 
not  even  defend  himself.  He  had  told  her  that  he 
would  die  to  save  her  any  suffering,  but,  before  her, 
he  had  writhed  and  gasped  helplessly  under  the 
weight  of  another  man's  hand,  his  open  hand,  not 
even  a  fist.  .  .  .  No  after  act  of  his  could  efface  from 
Sheila's  memory  that  picture  of  his  ignominy.  She 
had  seen  him  twisted  and  bent  and  beaten  and  thrown 
away.  His  father  had  triumphantly  returned  to  re 
assure  and  comfort  her  for  the  insult  of  a  boy's  im 
pertinence.  Would  Sheila  defend  him?  Would  she 
understand?  Or  would  she  not  be  justified  in  con 
temptuous  laughter  at  his  pretensions? 

Such  thoughts  —  less  like  thoughts,  however,  than 


154  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

like  fiery  fever  fits  —  twisted  and  scorched  Dickie's 
mind  as  he  lay  there.  They  burnt  into  him  wounds 
that  for  years  throbbed  slowly  into  scars. 

At  noon  the  heat  of  his  room  became  even  more 
intolerable  than  his  thoughts.  His  head  beat  with 
pain.  He  was  bathed  in  sweat,  weak  and  trembling. 
He  dragged  himself  up,  went  to  his  washstand,  and 
dipped  his  wincing  face  into  the  warmish,  stale  water. 
His  lips  felt  cracked  and  dry  and  swollen.  In  the 
wavy  mirror  he  saw  a  distorted  image  of  his  face, 
with  its  heavy  eyes,  scattered  hair,  and  the  darken 
ing  marks  of  his  father's  blows,  punctuated  by  the 
scarlet  scratches  of  the  emerald.  He  dried  his  face, 
loosened  his  collar,  and,  gasping  for  air,  came  out 
into  the  narrow  hall. 

The  hotel  was  very  still.  He  hurried  through  it,  his 
face  bent,  and  went  by  the  back  way  to  the  saloon. 
At  this  hour  Sheila  was  asleep.  Carthy  would  be  alone 
in  The  Aura  and  there  would  be  few,  if  any,  customers. 
Dickie  found  the  place  cool  and  quiet  and  empty, 
shuttered  from  the  sun,  the  air  stirred  by  electric 
fans.  Carthy  dozed  in  his  chair  behind  the  bar.  He 
gave  Dickie  his  order,  somnambulantly.  Dickie  took 
it  off  to  a  dim  corner  and  drank  with  the  thirst  of 
a  wounded  beast. 

Three  or  four  hours  later  he  staggered  back  to  his 
room.  A  thunderstorm  was  rumbling  and  flashing 
down  from  the  mountains  to  the  north.  The  window 
was  purple-black,  and  a  storm  wind  blew  the  dirty 


FLAMES  155 

curtains,  straight  and  steady,  into  the  room.  The 
cool  wind  tasted  and  smelt  of  hot  dust.  Dickie  felt 
his  dazed  way  to  the  bed  and  steadied  himself  into  a 
sitting  posture.  With  infinite  difficulty  he  rolled  and 
lighted  a  cigarette,  drew  at  it,  took  it  out,  tried  to 
put  it  again  between  his  lips,  and  fell  over  on  his 
back,  his  arm  trailing  over  the  edge  of  the  bed.  The 
lighted  cigarette  slipped  from  his  fingers  to  the  ragged 
strip  of  matting.  Dickie  lay  there,  breathing  heavily 
and  regularly  in  a  drunken  and  exhausted  sleep. 

A  vivid,  flickering  pain  in  his  arm  woke  him.  He 
thought  for  an  instant  that  he  must  have  died  and 
dropped  straight  into  Hell.  The  wind  still  blew  in 
upon  him,  but  it  blew  fire  against  him.  Above  him 
there  was  a  heavy  panoply  of  smoke.  His  bedclothes 
were  burning,  his  sleeve  was  on  fire.  The  boards  of 
his  floor  cracked  and  snapped  in  regiments  of  flame. 
He  got  up,  still  in  a  half  stupor,  plunged  his  arm  into 
the  water  pitcher,  saw,  with  a  startled  oath,  that  the 
woodwork  about  his  door  was  blazing  in  long  tongues 
of  fire  which  leaped  up  into  the  rafters  of  the  roof. 
His  brain  began  to  telegraph  its  messages  .  .  .  the 
hotel  was  on  fire.  He  could  not  imagine  what  had 
started  it.  He  remembered  Sheila. 

He  ran  along  the  passage,  the  roar  of  that  wind- 
driven  fire  following  him  as  the  draft  from  his  win 
dow  through  his  opened  door  gave  a  sudden  impulse 
to  the  flames,  and  he  came  to  Sheila's  sitting-room. 
He  knocked,  had  no  answer,  and  burst  in.  He  saw 


156  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

instantly  that  she  had  gone.  Her  father's  picture  had 
been  taken,  her  little  books,  her  sketches,  her  work- 
basket,  her  small  yellow  vase.  Things  were  scattered 
about.  As  he  stood  staring,  a  billow  of  black  smoke 
rolled  into  the  room.  He  went  quickly  through  the 
bedroom  and  the  bath,  calling  "Sheila"  in  a  low, 
uncertain  voice,  returned  to  the  sitting-room  to  find 
the  air  already  pungent  and  hot.  There  was  a  paper 
pinned  up  on  the  mantel.  "Sheila's  writing  marched 
across  it.  Dickie  rubbed  the  smoke  from  his  eyes  and 
read: 

I  am  going  away  from  Millings.  And  I  am  not  coming 
back.  Amelia  may  have  the  things  I  have  left.  I  don't  want 
them. 

This  statement  was  addressed  to  no  one. 

"  She  has  gone  to  New  York,"  thought  Dickie.  His 
confused  mind  became  possessed  with  the  immediate 
purpose  of  following  her.  There  was  an  Eastern  train 
in  the  late  afternoon.  Only  he  must  have  money  and 
it  was  —  most  of  it  —  in  his  room.  He  dashed  back. 
The  passage  was  ablaze;  his  room  roared  like  the  very 
heart  of  a  furnace.  It  was  no  use  to  think  of  getting 
in  there.  Well,  he  had  something  in  his  pocket,  enough 
to  start  him.  He  plunged,  choking,  into  Sheila's  sit 
ting-room  again.  For  some  reason  this  flight  of  hers 
had  brought  back  his  hope.  There  was  to  be  a  begin 
ning,  a  fresh  start,  a  chance. 

He  went  over  to  the  chair  where  Sheila  had  sat  in 
the  comfort  of  his  arms  and  he  touched  the  piece 


FLAMES  157 

of  tapestry  on  its  back.  That  was  his  good-bye  to 
Millings.  Then  he  fastened  his  collar,  smoothed  his 
hair,  standing  close  before  Sheila's  mirror,  peering 
and  blinking  through  the  smoke,  and  buttoned  his 
coat  painstakingly.  There  would  be  a  hat  downstairs. 
As  he  turned  to  go  he  saw  a  little  brown  leather  book 
lying  on  the  floor  below  the  mantel.  He  picked  it  up. 
Here  was  something  he  could  take  to  Sheila.  With  an 
impulse  of  tenderness  he  opened  it.  His  eyes  were 
caught  by  a  stanza  - 

"The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven; 
Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even; 
She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 
And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven  —  " 

There  are  people,  no  doubt,  who  will  not  be  able 
to  believe  this  truthful  bit  of  Dickie's  history.  The 
smoke  was  drifting  across  him,  the  roar  of  the  nearing 
fire  was  in  his  ears,  he  was  at  a  great  crisis  in  his 
affairs,  his  heart  was  hot  with  wounded  love,  and  his 
brain  hot  with  whiskey  and  with  hope.  Nevertheless, 
he  did  now,  under  the  spell  of  those  printed  words, 
which  did  not  even  remotely  resemble  any  words 
that  he  had  ever  read  or  heard  before,  forget  the 
smoke,  the  roar,  the  love,  the  hope,  and,  standing 
below  Sheila's  mirror,  he  did  read  "The  Blessed 
Damozel "  from  end  to  end.  And  the  love  of  those 
lovers,  divided  by  all  the  space  between  the  shaken 
worlds,  and  the  beauty  of  her  tears  made  a  great 


158  THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD 

and  mystic  silence  of  rapture  about  him.  "O  God!" 
Dickie  said  twice  as  he  read.  He  brushed  away  the 
smoke  to  see  the  last  lines,  —  "And  wept  —  I  heard 
her  tears."  The  ecstatic  pain  of  beauty  gripped  him 
to  the  forgetfulness  of  all  other  pain  or  ecstasy.  "O 
God!" 

He  came  to  with  a  start,  shut  the  book,  stuck  it 
into  his  pocket,  and,  crooking  his  arm  over  his  smart 
ing  eyes,  he  plunged  out  of  the  room.  Millings  had 
become  aware  of  its  disaster.  Dickie,  fleeing  by  the 
back  way,  leaping  dangers  and  beating  through  fire, 
knew  by  the  distant  commotion  that  the  Fire  Bri 
gade,  of  which  he  was  a  member,  was  gathering  its 
men  for  the  glory  of  their  name.  He  saw,  too,  that 
with  a  wind  like  this  to  aid  the  fire,  there  was  n't  a 
chance  for  The  Aura,  and  a  queer  pang  of  sympathy 
for  his  father  stabbed  him.  "It  will  kill  Pap,"  thought 
Dickie.  Save  for  this  pang,  he  ran  along  the  road  to 
ward  the  station  with  a  light,  adventurous  heart.  He 
did  not  know  that  he  had  started  the  fire  himself. 
The  stupor  of  his  sleep  had  smothered  out  all  memory 
of  the  cigarette  he  had  lighted  and  let  fall.  Unwit 
tingly  Dickie  had  killed  the  beauty  of  his  father's 
dream,  and  now,  just  as  unwittingly,  he  was  about 
to  kill  the  object  of  his  father's  passion.  When  he 
looked  back  from  the  station  platform,  the  roof  of 
The  Aura  was  already  in  a  blaze. 


PART  TWO 

THE  STARS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  HILL 

THATCHEE  spoke  to  his  horses,  now  fatherly, 
masterly,  now  with  a  professorial  sarcasm:  "Come 
on,  Monkey,  there's  a  good  girl!  Get  out  of  that, 
you  Fox!  Dern  you!  You  call  that  pulling?  It's  my 
notion  of  layin'  off  for  the  day."  Even  at  its  most 
urgent,  his  voice  was  soft,  hushed  by  the  great 
loneliness  of  this  canon  up  which  he  slowly  crept. 
Monkey  and  Fox  had  been  plodding,  foot  by  foot, 
the  creaking  wagon  at  their  heels,  since  dawn.  It 
was  now  ten  o'clock  and  they  were  just  beginning  to 
climb.  The  Hill,  that  looked  so  near  to  the  mesa  above 
Hudson's  yard,  still  stood  aloof.  It  had  towered  there 
ahead  of  them  as  they  jerked  and  toiled  across  the 
interminable  flat  in  their  accompanying  cloud  of 
dust.  The  great  circle  of  the  world  had  dwarfed  them 
to  a  bitter  insignificance:  a  team  of  crickets,  they 
seemed,  driven  by  a  gnome.  The  hushed  tone  of 
Thatcher's  voice  made  unconscious  tribute  to  this 
immensity. 

As  they  came  to  the  opening  of  the  canon,  the  high 
mountain-top  disappeared;  the  immediate  foothills 
closed  down  and  shut  it  out.  The  air  grew  headily 
light.  Even  under  the  blazing  July  sun,  it  came  cool 
to  the  lungs,  cool  and  intensely  sweet.  Thousands  of 


162  THE  STARS 

wild  flowers  perfumed  it  and  the  sun-drawn  resin  of 
a  thousand  firs.  All  the  while  the  rushing  of  water 
accompanied  the  creaking  of  Thatcher's  progress. 
Not  far  from  the  road,  down  there  below  in  a  tangle 
of  pine  branches,  willows,  and  ferns,  the  frost-white 
stream  fled  toward  the  valley  with  all  the  seeming 
terror  of  escape.  Here  the  team  began  their  tugging 
and  their  panting  and  their  long  pauses  to  get  breath. 
Thatcher  would  push  forward  the  wooden  handle 
that  moved  his  brake,  and  at  the  sound  and  the 
grating  of  the  wheel  the  horses  would  stop  auto 
matically  and  stand  with  heaving  sides.  The  wagon 
shook  slightly  with  their  breathing.  At  such  times 
the  stream  seemed  to  shout  in  the  stillness.  Below, 
there  began  to  be  an  extraordinary  view  of  the 
golden  country  with  its  orange  mesas  and  its  dark, 
purple  rim  of  mountains.  Millings  was  a  tiny  circle 
of  square  pebbles,  something  built  up  by  children  in 
their  play.  The  awful  impersonalities  of  sky  and 
earth  swept  away  its  small  human  importance. 
Thatcher's  larkspur-colored  eyes  absorbed  serenity. 
They  had  drawn  their  color  and  their  far-sighted 
clearness  from  such  long  contemplations  of  distant 
horizon  lines. 

Now  and  again,  however,  Thatcher  would  glance 
back  and  down  from  his  high  seat  at  his  load.  It 
consisted,  for  the  most  part,  of  boxes  of  canned 
goods,  but  near  the  front  there  was  a  sort  of  nest, 
made  from  bags  of  Indian  meal.  In  the  middle  of  the 


THE  HILL  163 

nest  lay  another  bundle  of  slim,  irregular  outline.  It 
was  covered  with  a  thin  blanket  and  a  piece  of  sack 
ing  protected  it  from  the  sun.  A  large,  clumsy  parcel 
lay  beside  it.  Each  time  Thatcher  looked  at  this  por 
tion  of  his  load  he  pulled  more  anxiously  at  his 
mustache.  At  last,  when  the  noon  sun  stood  straight 
above  the  pass  and  he  stopped  to  water  his  horses  at 
a  trough  which  caught  a  trickle  of  spring  water,  he 
bent  down  and  softly  raised  the  piece  of  sacking, 
suspended  like  a  tent  from  one  fat  sack  to  another 
above  the  object  of  his  uneasiness.  There,  in  the  com 
plete  relaxation  of  exhausted  sleep,  lay  Sheila,  no 
child  more  limp  and  innocent  of  aspect;  her  hair 
damp  and  ringed  on  her  smooth  forehead,  her  lips 
mournful  and  sweet,  sedately  closed,  her  expression 
at  once  proud  and  innocent  and  wistful,  as  is  the 
sleeping  face  of  a  little,  little  girl.  There  was  that 
look  of  a  broken  flower,  that  look  of  lovely  death, 
that  stops  the  heart  of  a  mother  sometimes  when  she 
bends  over  a  crib  and  sees  damp  curls  in  a  halo  about 
a  strange,  familiar  face. 

Thatcher,  looking  at  Sheila,  had  some  of  these 
thoughts.  A  teamster  is  either  philosopher  or  clown. 
One  cannot  move,  day  after  day,  all  day  for  a  thou 
sand  days,  under  a  changeless,  changeful  sky,  inch 
by  inch,  across  the  surface  of  a  changeless,  changeful 
earth  and  not  come  very  near  to  some  of  the  locked 
doors  of  the  temple  where  clowns  sleep  and  wise  men 
meditate.  And  Thatcher  was  a  father,  one  of  the  wise 


164  THE  STARS 

and  reasonable  fathers  of  the  West,  whose  seven- 
year-old  sons  are  friends  and  helpmates  and  toward 
whom  six-year-old  daughters  are  moved  to  little  acts 
of  motherliness. 

The  sun  blazed  for  a  minute  on  Sheila's  face.  She 
opened  her  eyes,  looked  vaguely  from  some  immense 
distance  at  Thatcher,  and  then  sat  up. 

"Oh,  gracious!"  said  Sheila,  woman  and  sprite  and 
adventurer  again.  "Where  the  dickens  is  my  hat?  Did 
it  fall  out?" 

"No,  ma'am,"  Thatcher  smiled  in  a  relieved  fash 
ion.  "I  put  it  under  the  seat." 

Sheila  scrambled  to  a  perch  on  one  of  the  sacks  and 
faced  the  surface  of  half  a  world. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Thatcher,  isn't  it  too  wonderful!  How 
high  are  we?  Is  this  the  other  side?  Oh,  no,  I  can  see 
Millings.  Poor  tiny,  tiny  Millings!  It  is  small,  is  n?t 
it?  How  very  small  it  is!  What  air!"  She  shut  her 
eyes,  drawing  in  the  perfumed  tonic.  The  altitude 
had  intoxicated  her.  Her  heart  was  beating  fast,  her 
blood  tingling,  her  brain  electrified.  Every  sense 
seemed  to  be  sharpened.  She  saw  and  smelt  and 
heard  with  abnormal  vividness. 

"The  flowers  are  awfully  bright  up  here,  aren't 
they?"  she  said.  "What's  that  coral-colored  bushy 
one?" 

"Indian  paint-brush." 

"And  that  blue  one?  It  is  blue!  I  don't  believe  I 
ever  knew  what  blueness  meant  before." 


THE  HILL  165 

"Lupine.  And  over  yonder 's  monkshead.  That 
other's  larkspur,  that  poisons  cattle  in  the  spring. 
On  the  other  side  you  '11  see  a  whole  lot  more  —  wild 
hollyhock  and  fireweed  and  columbine  — •  well,  say, 
I  learned  all  them  names  from  a  dude  I  drove  over 
one  summer." 

"And  such  a  sky!"  said  Sheila,  lifting  her  head, 
"and  such  big  pines!"  She  lost  herself  for  a  minute 
in  the  azure  immensity  above.  A  vast  mosque  of 
cloud,  dome  bubbles  great  and  small,  stood  ahead  of 
them,  dwarfing  every  human  experience  of  height. 
"  Mr.  Thatcher,  there  is  n't  any  air  up  here.  What  is 
it  we're  trying  to  breathe,  anyway?" 

He  smiled  patiently,  sympathetically,  and  handed 
her  a  tin  mug  of  icy  water  from  the  little  trickling 
spring.  The  bruise  of  Hudson's  kiss  ached  at  the  cold 
touch  of  the  water  and  a  shadow  fell  over  her  excite 
ment.  She  thanked  the  driver  gravely. 

"What  time  is  it  now?"  she  asked. 

"Past  noon.  Better  eat  your  sandwich." 

She  took  one  from  its  wrapping  pensively,  but  ate 
it  with  absent-minded  eagerness.  Thatcher's  blue 
eyes  twinkled. 

"Seems  like  I  recollect  a  lady  that  did  n't  want  no 
food  to  be  put  in  for  her." 

"I  remember  her,  too,"  said  Sheila,  between  bites, 
"but  very,  very  vaguely." 

She  stood  up  after  a  third  sandwich,  shook  crumbs 
from  her  skirt,  and  stretched  her  arms.  "What  a  great 


166  THE  STARS 

sleep  I've  had:  Since  six  o'clock!"  She  stared  down 
at  the  lower  world.  "I've  left  somebody  at  Millings." 

"Who's  that?"  asked  Thatcher,  drawling  the 
words  a  trifle  as  a  Westerner  does  when  he  is  con 
scious  of  a  double  meaning. 

"Me." 

Thatcher  laughed.  "You're  a  real  funny  girl,  Miss 
Arundel,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  left  one  Me  when  I  decided  to  go  into  the 
saloon,  and  now  I  've  left  another  Me.  I  believe  people 
shed  their  skins  like  snakes." 

"  Yes 'm,  I've  had  that  notion  myself.  But  as 
you  get  older,  your  skin  kind  of  peels  off  easy  and 
gradual  —  you  don't  get  them  shocks  when  you  sort 
of  come  out  all  new  and  shiny  and  admirin'  of  your 
self." 

Sheila  blushed  faintly  and  looked  at  him.  His  face 
was  serene  and  empty  of  intention.  But  she  felt  that 
she  had  been  guilty  of  egotism,  as  indeed  she  had. 
She  asked  rather  meekly  for  her  hat,  and  having  put 
it  on  like  a  shadow  above  her  fairness,  she  climbed 
up  to  Thatcher's  side  on  the  driver's  seat.  The  hat 
was  her  felt  Stetson,  and,  for  the  rest,  she  was  clad 
in  her  riding-clothes,  the  boy's  shirt,  the  short  cor 
duroy  skirt,  the  high-laced  boots.  Her  youthfulness, 
rather  than  her  strange  beauty,  was  accentuated  by 
this  dress.  She  had  the  look  of  a  super-delicate  boy, 
a  sort  of  rose-leaf  fairy  prince. 

"Are  we  on  the  road?"  asked  Sheila  presently. 


THE  HILL  167 

Thatcher  gave  way  to  mirth.  "Don't  it  seem  like  a 
road  to  you?" 

She  lurched  against  him,  then  saved  herself  from 
falling  out  at  the  other  side  by  a  frantic  clutch. 

"Is  it  a  road?"  She  looked  down  a  dizzy  slope  of 
which  the  horse's  foothold  seemed  to  her  the  most 
precarious  part. 

"Yes'm  —  all  the  road  there  is.  We  call  it  that. 
We're  kind  of  po-lite  to  these  little  efforts  of  the 
Government  —  kind  of  want  to  encourage  'em.  Con 
gressmen  kind  of  needs  coaxin'  and  flat'ry.  They're 
right  ornery  critters.  I  heard  an  argyment  at  ween  a 
feller  with  a  hoss  and  a  feller  with  a  mule  onct.  The 
mule  feller  was  kind  of  uppish  about  bosses;  said  he 
did  n't  see  the  advantage  of  the  critter.  A  mule  now 
was  steady  and  easy  fed  and  strong.  Well,  ma'am, 
the  hoss  feller  got  kind  of  hot  after  some  of  this,  so 
he  says,  'Well,  sir,'  he  says,  'there's  this  about  it. 
When  you  got  a  hoss,  you  got  a  hoss.  You  know  what 
you  got.  He 's  goin'  to  act  like  a  hoss.  But  when  you 
got  a  mule,  why,  you  can't  never  tell.  All  of  a  sudden 
one  of  these  days,  he's  like  as  not  to  turn  into  a 
Congressman.'  Well,  ma'am,  that's  the  way  we  feel 
about  Congressmen.  —  Ho,  there,  Monkey!  Keep 
up!  I'll  just  get  out  an'  hang  on  the  wheel  while  we 
make  this  corner.  That  '11  keep  us  from  turnin'  over, 
I  reckon." 

Sheila  sat  and  held  on  with  both  hands.  Her  eyes 
were  wide  and  very  bright.  She  held  her  breath  till 


168  THE  STARS 

Thatcher  got  in  again,  the  corner  safely  made.  For 
the  next  creeping,  lurching  mile,  Sheila  found  that 
every  muscle  in  her  body  had  its  use  in  keeping  her 
on  that  seat.  Then  they  reached  the  snow  and  matters 
grew  definitely  worse.  Here,  half  the  road  was  four 
feet  of  dirty,  icy  drift  and  half  of  abysmal  mud.  They 
slipped  from  drift  to  mire  with  awful  perils  and  rack- 
ings  of  the  wagon  and  painful  struggles  of  the  team. 
Sometimes  the  snow  softened  and  let  the  horses  in 
up  to  their  necks  when  Thatcher  plied  whip  and 
tongue  with  necessary  cruelty.  At  last  there  came 
disaster.  They  were  making  one  of  those  heart-stop 
ping  turns.  Sheila  had  got  out  and  was  adding  her 
mosquito  weight  to  Thatcher's  on  the  upper  side, 
half -walking,  half -hanging  to  the  wagon.  The  outer 
wheels  were  deep  in  mud,  the  inner  wheels  hung  clear. 
The  horses  strained  —  and  slipped. 

"Let  go!"  shouted  Thatcher. 

Sheila  fell  back  into  the  snow,  and  the  wagon 
turned  quietly  over  and  began  to  slide  down  the 
slope.  Thatcher  sprang  to  his  horses'  heads.  For  an 
instant  it  seemed  that  they  would  be  dragged  over  the 
edge.  Then  the  wagon  stopped,  and  Thatcher,  grim 
and  pale,  unhitched  his  team.  He  swore  fluently 
under  his  breath  during  this  entire  operation.  After 
wards,  he  turned  to  the  scarlet  and  astounded  pas 
senger  and  gave  her  one  of  his  shining  smiles. 

"Well,  ma'am,"  he  said,  beginning  to  roll  a  ciga 
rette,  "what  do  you  think  of  that?" 


THE  HILL  169 

"Whatever  shall  we  do  now?"  asked  Sheila.  She 
had  identified  herself  utterly  with  this  team,  this 
load,  this  driver.  She  brushed  the  snow  from  her 
skirt,  climbed  down  from  the  drift  to  the  edge  of  the 
mire  by  Thatcher's  elbow.  The  team  stood  with  hang 
ing  heads,  panting  and  steaming,  glad  of  the  rest  and 
the  release. 

"Well,  ma'am,"  said  Thatcher,  looking  down  at  the 
loyal,  anxious  face  with  a  certain  tenderness,  "I'm 
agoin'  to  do  one  of  two  things.  I'm  agoin'  to  lead  my 
team  over  The  Hill  and  come  back  with  two  more 
horses  and  a  hand  to  help  me  or  I'm  agoin'  to  set 
here  and  wait  for  the  stage." 

"How  long  will  it  be  before  the  stage  comes?" 

"Matter  of  four  or  five  hours." 

"Oh,  dear!  Then  I  can't  possibly  overtake  my  — 
my  friend,  Miss  Blake!" 

"No,  ma'am.  But  you  can  walk  on  a  quarter-mile; 
take  a  rest  at  Duff's  place  top  of  The  Hill.  I  can  pick 
you  up  when  I  come  by;  like  as  not  I'll  spend  the 
night  at  Duff's.  By  the  time  I  get  my  load  together 
it'll  be  along  dark  —  Hullo!"  He  interrupted  him 
self,  lifting  his  chin.  "I  hear  hosses  now." 

They  both  listened.    "No  wagon,"  said  Thatcher. 

Five  minutes  later,  a  slouching  horseman,  cigarette 
in  mouth,  shaggy  chaps  on  long  legs,  spurred  and 
booted  and  decorated  with  a  red  neck-scarf  came  pic 
turesquely  into  view.  His  pony  dug  sturdy  feet  into 
the  steep  roadside,  avoiding  the  mud  of  the  road  itself. 


170  THE  STARS 

The  man  led  two  other  horses,  saddled,  but  empty 
of  riders.  He  stopped  and  between  him  and  Thatcher 
took  place  one  of  the  immensely  tranquil,  meditative, 
and  deliberate  conversations  of  the  Far  West. 

Sheila's  quick,  Celtic  nerves  tormented  her.  At  last 
she  broke  in  with  an  inspiration.  "Couldn't  I  hire 
one  of  your  horses?"  she  asked,  rising  from  an  over 
turned  sack  of  which  she  had  made  a  resting-place. 

The  man  looked  down  at  her  with  grave,  consid 
erate  eyes. 

"Why,  yes,  ma'am.  I  reckon  you  could,"  he  said 
gently.  "They're  right  gentle  ponies,"  he  added. 

"Are  they  yours?" 

"One  of  'em  is.  The  other  belongs  to  Kearney, 
dude-wrangler  up  the  valley.  But,  say,  if  you're 
goin'  to  Rusty  you  c'd  leave  my  hoss  at  Lander's  and 
I  c'd  get  him  when  I  come  along.  I  am  stoppin'  here 
to  help  with  the  load.  It  would  cost  you  nothin',  lady. 
The  hoss  has  got  .to  go  over  to  Rusty  and  I  'd  be 
pleased  to  let  you  ride  him.  You're  no  weight." 

"How  good  of  you!"  said  Sheila.  "I'll  take  the 
best  care  of  him  I  know  how  to  take.  Could  I  find  my 
way?  How  far  is  it?" 

"All  downhill  after  a  half-mile,  lady.  You  c'd 
make  Rusty  afore  dark.  It's  a  whole  lot  easier  on 
hoofs  than  it  is  on  wheels.  You  can't  miss  the  road 
on  account  of  it  bein'  the  only  road  there  is.  And 
Lander's  is  the  only  one  hotel  in  Rusty.  You'd  best 
stop  the  night  there." 


THE  HILL  171 

He  evidently  wanted  to  ask  her  her  destination, 
but  his  courtesy  forbade. 

Sheila  volunteered,  "I  am  going  to  Miss  Blake's 
ranch  up  Hidden  Creek." 

A  sort  of  flash  of  surprise  passed  across  the  re 
served,  brown,  young  face.  "Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said 
with  no  expression.  "Well,  you  better  leave  the  rest 
of  your  trip  until  to-morrow." 

He  slipped  from  his  horse  with  an  effortless  ripple, 
untied  a  tawny  little  pony  with  a  thick  neck,  a  round 
body,  and  a  mild,  intelligent  face,  and  led  him  to 
Sheila  who  mounted  from  her  sack.  Thatcher  care 
fully  adjusted  the  stirrups,  a  primitive  process  that 
involved  the  wearisome  lacing  and  unlacing  of 
leather  thongs.  Sheila  bade  him  a  bright  and  ad 
venturous  "Good-bye,"  thanked  the  unknown  owner 
of  the  horse,  and  started.  The  pony  showed  some 
unwillingness  to  leave  his  companions,  fretted  and 
tossed  his  head,  and  made  a  few  attempts  at  a  right 
about  face,  but  Sheila  dug  in  her  small  spurred  heels 
and  spoke  beguilingly.  At  last  he  settled  down  to 
sober  climbing.  Sheila  looked  back  and  waved  her 
hand.  The  two  tall,  lean  men  were  gazing  after  her. 
They  took  off  their  hats  and  waved.  She  felt  a 
warmth  that  was  almost  loving  for  their  gracefulness 
and  gravity  and  kindness.  Here  was  another  breed 
of  man  than  that  produced  by  Millings.  A  few  min 
utes  later  she  came  to  the  top  of  The  Pass  and  looked 
down  into  Hidden  Creek. 


CHAPTER  n 

ADVENTURE 

SHEILA  stood  and  drew  breath.  The  shadow  of  the 
high  peak,  in  the  lap  of  which  she  stood,  poured  itself 
eastward  across  the  warm,  lush,  narrow  land.  This 
was  different  from  the  hard,  dull  gold  and  alkali  dust 
of  the  Millings  country :  here  were  silvery -green  miles 
of  range,  and  purple-green  miles  of  pine  forest,  and 
lovely  lighter  fringes  and  groves  of  cottonwood  and 
aspen  trees.  Here  and  there  were  little  dots  of 
ranches,  visible  more  by  their  vivid  oat  and  alfalfa 
fields  than  by  their  small  log  cabins.  Down  the  valley 
the  river  flickered,  lifted  by  its  brightness  above  the 
hollow  that  held  it,  till  it  seemed  just  hung  there  like 
a  string  of  jewels.  Beyond  it  the  land  rose  slowly  in 
noble  sweeps  to  the  opposite  ranges,  two  chains  that 
sloped  across  each  other  in  a  glorious  confusion  of 
heads,  round  and  soft  as  velvet  against  the  blue  sky 
or  blunt  and  broken  with  a  thundery  look  of  extinct 
craters.  To  the  north  Sheila  saw  a  further  serenity 
of  mountains,  lying  low  and  soft  on  the  horizon,  of 
another  and  more  wistful  blue.  Over  it  all  was  a  sort 
of  magical  haze,  soft  and  brilliant  as  though  the  air 
were  a  melted  sapphire.  There  was  still  blessedness 
such  as  Sheila  had  never  felt.  She  was  filled  with  a 
longing  to  ride  on  and  on  until  her  spirit  should 


ADVENTURE  173 

into  the  wide,  tranquil,  glowing  spirit  of  the  lonely 
land.  It  seemed  to  her  that  some  forgotten  medicine 
man  sat  cross-legged  in  a  hollow  of  the  hills,  blowing, 
from  a  great  peace  pipe,  the  blue  smoke  of  peace  down 
and  along  the  hollows  and  the  canons  and  the  level 
lengths  of  range.  In  the  mighty  breast  of  the  blower 
there  was  not  even  a  memory  of  trouble,  only  a  noble 
savage  serenity  too  deep  for  prayer. 

She  rode  for  a  long  while  —  no  sound  but  her 
pony's  hoofs  —  her  eyes  lifted  across  the  valley  until 
a  sudden  fragrance  drew  her  attention  earthwards. 
She  was  going  through  an  open  glade  of  aspens  and 
the  ground  was  white  with  columbine,  enormous 
flowers  snowy  and  crisp  as  though  freshly  starched 
by  fairy  laundresses.  With  a  cry  of  delight  Sheila 
jumped  off  her  horse,  tied  him  by  his  reins  to  a  tree, 
and  began  gathering  flowers  with  all  the  eager  con 
centration  of  a  six-year-old.  And,  like  all  the  flower- 
gatherers  of  fable  from  Proserpina  down,  she  found 
herself  the  victim  of  disaster.  When  she  came  back 
to  the  road  with  a  useless,  already  perishing  mass  of 
white,  the  pony  had  disappeared.  Her  knot  had  been 
unfaithful.  Quietly  that  mild-nosed,  pensive-eyed, 
round-bodied  animal  had  pulled  himself  free  and  tip 
toed  back  to  join  his  friends. 

Sheila  hurried  up  the  road  toward  the  summit  she 
had  so  recently  crossed,  till  the  altitude  forced  her  to 
stop  with  no  breath  in  her  body  and  a  pounding  red 
ness  before  her  eyes.  She  stamped  her  feet  with  vex- 


174  THE  STARS 

ation.  She  longed  to  cry.  She  remembered  confusedly, 
but  with  a  certain  satisfaction,  some  of  the  things 
Thatcher  had  said  to  his  team.  An  entire  and  sudden 
lenience  toward  the  gentle  art  of  swearing  was  born 
in  her.  She  threw  her  columbine  angrily  away.  She 
had  come  so  far  on  her  journey  that  she  could  never 
be  able  to  get  back  to  Thatcher  nor  even  to  Duff's 
shanty  before  dark.  And  how  far  down  still  the  val 
ley  lay  with  that  shadow  widening  and  lengthening 
across  it! 

Her  sudden  loneliness  descended  upon  her  with  an 
almost  audible  rush.  Dusk  at  this  height  —  dusk 
with  a  keen  smell  of  glaciers  and  wind-stung  pines  — 
dusk  with  the  world  nine  thousand  feet  below;  and 
about  her  this  falling-away  of  mountain-side,  where 
the  trees  seemed  to  slant  and  the  very  flowers  to  be 
outrun  by  a  mysterious  sort  of  flight  of  rebel  earth 
toward  space!  The  great  and  heady  height  was  in 
formed  with  a  presence  which  if  not  hostile  was  ter- 
rifyingly  ignorant  of  man.  There  was  some  one  not 
far  away,  she  felt,  just  above  there  behind  the  rocky 
ridge,  just  back  there  in  the  confusion  of  purplish 
darkness  streaked  by  pine-tree  columns,  just  below 
in  the  thicket  of  the  stream  —  some  one  to  meet 
whose  look  meant  death. 

Her  first  instinct  was  to  keep  to  the  road.  She 
walked  on  down  toward  the  valley  very  rapidly.  But 
going  down  meant  meeting  darkness.  She  began  to 
be  unreasonably  afraid  of  the  night.  She  was  afflicted 


ADVENTURE  175 

by  an  old,  old  childish,  immemorial  dread  of  bears. 
In  spite  of  the  chill,  she  was  very  warm,  her  tongue 
dry  with  rapid  breathing  of  the  thin  air.  She  was 
intolerably  thirsty.  The  sound  of  water  called  to  her 
in  a  lisping,  inhuman  voice.  She  resisted  till  she  was 
ashamed  of  her  cowardice,  stepped  furtively  off  the 
track,  scrambled  down  a  slope,  parted  some  branches, 
and  found  herself  on  a  rock  above  a  little  swirling 
pool.  On  the  other  side  a  man  kneeling  over  the  water 
lifted  a  white  and  startled  face. 

Through  the  eerie  green  twilight  up  into  which  the 
pool  threw  a  shifty  leaden  brightness,  the  two  stared 
at  each  other  for  a  moment.  Then  the  man  rose  to  his 
feet  and  smiled.  Sheila  noticed  that  he  had  been 
bathing  a  bloody  wrist  round  which  he  was  now 
wrapping  clumsily  a  handkerchief. 

"Don't  be  frightened,"  he  said  in  a  rather  un 
certain  voice;  "I'm  not  near  so  desperate  as  I  look. 
Do  you  want  a  drink?  Hand  me  down  your  cup  if 
you  have  one  and  I'll  fill  it  for  you." 

"I'm  not  afraid  now,"  Sheila  quavered,  and  drew 
a  big  breath.  "But  I  was  startled  for  a  minute.  I 
have  n't  any  cup.  I  —  I  suppose,  in  a  way  —  I  'm 
lost." 

He  was  peering  at  her  now,  and  when  she  took  off 
her  hat  and  rubbed  her  damp  forehead  with  a  weary, 
worried  gesture,  he  gave  a  little  exclamation  and 
swung  himself  across  the  stream  by  a  branch,  and 
up  to  her  side  on  the  rock. 


176  THE  STARS 

"The  barmaid!"  he  said.  "And  I  was  coming  to 
see  you!" 

Sheila  laughed  in  the  relieved  surprise  of  recogni 
tion.  "Why,  you  are  the  cowboy  —  the  one  that 
fought  so  —  so  terribly.  Have  you  been  fighting 
again?  Your  wrist  is  hurt.  May  I  tie  it  up  for  you?" 

He  held  out  his  arm  silently  and  she  tied  the  hand 
kerchief  —  a  large,  clean,  coarse  one  —  neatly  about 
it.  What  with  weariness  and  the  shock  of  her  fright, 
her  fingers  were  not  very  steady.  He  looked  down  at 
her  during  the  operation  with  a  contented  expression. 
It  seemed  that  the  moment  was  filled  for  him  with 
satisfaction  to  a  complete  forgetfulness  of  past  or 
present  annoyances. 

"This  is  a  big  piece  of  luck  for  me,"  he  said. 
"But"  —  with  a  sudden  thundery  change  of  counte 
nance —  "you're  not  going  over  to  Hidden  Creek, 
are  you?" 

"I'm  trying  to  go  there,"  said  Sheila;  "I've  been 
trying  ever  since  five  o'clock  this  morning.  But  I 
don't  seem  to  be  getting  there  very  fast.  I  wanted  to 
make  Rusty  before  dark.  And  my  pony  got  away 
from  me  and  went  back.  I  know  he  went  back  be 
cause  I  saw  the  marks  of  his  feet  and  he  would  have 
gone  back.  Would  n't  he?  Do  you  think  I  could  get 
to  Rusty  on  foot  to-night?" 

"No,  ma'am.  I  know  you  couldn't.  You  could 
make  it  easy  on  horseback,  though."  He  stared  med 
itatively  above  her  head  and  then  said  in  a  tone  of 


A  MAN  KNEELING  OVER  THE  WATER  LIFTED  A  WHITE  AND 
STARTLED  FACE 


ADVENTURE  177 

resignation:  "I  believe  I  better  go  back  myself.  I'll 
take  you." 

She  had  finished  her  bandage.  She  looked  up  at 
him.  "Go  back?  But  you  must  have  just  started 
from  there  a  few  hours  ago." 

"Well,  ma'am,  I  did  n't  come  very  direct.  I  kind 
of  shifted  round.  But  I  can  go  back  straight.  And  I'd 
really  rather.  I  think  I'd  better.  It  was  all  foolish 
ness  my  coming  over.  I  can  put  you  up  back  of  me 
on  my  horse,  if  you  don't  mind,  and  we'll  get  to 
Rusty  before  it's  lit  up.  I'd  rather.  You  don't  mind 
riding  that  way,  do  you?  You  see,  if  I  put  you  up 
and  walked,  it'd  take  lots  more  time." 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  Sheila,  but  she  said  it  rather 
proudly  so  that  Hilliard  smiled. 

"Well,  ma'am,  we  can  try  it,  anyway.  If  you  go 
back  to  the  road,  I'll  get  my  horse." 

He  seemed  to  have  hidden  his  horse  in  a  density 
of  trees  a  mile  from  the  road.  Sheila  waited  till  she 
thought  she  must  have  dreamed  her  meeting  with 
him.  He  came  back,  looking  a  trifle  sheepish. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "I  did  n't  come  by  the  road, 
ma'am." 

The  horse  was  a  large,  bony  animal  with  a  mean 
eye. 

"That  is  n't  the  pony  you  rode  when  you  came  to 
Millings,"  said  Sheila. 

He  bent  to  examine  his  saddle-girth.  "No,  ma'am," 
he  said  gently.  "I've  been  riding  quite  a  variety  of 


178  THE  STARS 

horse-flesh  lately.  I'll  get  on  first  if  you  don't  mind 
and  give  you  a  hand  up.  You  put  your  foot  on  mine. 
The  horse  will  stand." 

Sheila  obeyed,  pressing  her  lips  tight,  for  she  was 
afraid.  However,  his  long,  supple  fingers  closed  over 
her  wrist  like  steel  and  she  got  quickly  and  easily  to 
her  perch  and  clung  nervously  to  him. 

"That's  right.  Put  your  arms  round  tight.  Are 
you  all  fixed?" 

"Y— yes." 

"And  comfortable?" 

"Y— yes,  I  think  so." 

"We 're  off,  then." 

They  started  en  a  quick,  steady  walk  down  the 
road.  Once,  Cosme  loosened  the  six-shooter  on  his 
hip.  He  whistled  incessantly  through  his  teeth.  Ex 
cept  for  this,  they  were  both  silent. 

"Were  you  coming  to  Millings?"  asked  Sheila  at 
last.  She  was  of  the  world  where  silence  has  a  certain 
oppressive  significance.  She  was  getting  used  to  her 
peculiar  physical  position  and  found  she  did  not 
have  to  cling  so  desperately.  But  in  a  social  sense  she 
was  embarrassed.  He  was  quite  impersonal  about  the 
situation,  which  made  matters  easier  for  her.  Now 
and  then  she  suppressed  a  frantic  impulse  to  giggle. 

"Yes,  ma'am.  To  see  you,"  he  answered.  "I  never 
rightly  thanked  you."  She  saw  the  back  of  his  neck 
flush  and  she  blushed  too,  remembering  his  quickly 
diverted  kiss  which  had  left  a  smear  of  blood  across 


ADVENTURE  179 

her  fingers.  That  had  happened  only  a  few  days  be 
fore,  but  they  were  long  days.  He  too  must  have  been 
well  occupied.  There  was  still  a  bruise  on  his  temple. 
"I  —  I  wasn't  quite  right  in  the  head  after  those 
fellows  had  beat  me  up,  and  I  kind  of  wanted  to  show 
you  that  I  am  something  like  a  gentleman." 

"Have  you  been  in  Hidden  Creek?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  I  was  thinking  of  prospecting  around. 
I  meant  to  homestead  over  there.  I  like  the  country. 
But  when  it  comes  to  settling  down  I  get  kind  of 
restless.  And  usually  I  get  into  a  mix-up  that  changes 
my  intentions.  So  I'd  about  decided  to  go  back  down 
Arizona  way  and  work.  —  Where  are  you  going  to 
stay  in  Hidden  Creek?"  he  asked.  "Where's  your 
stuff?" 

"Mr.  Thatcher  has  it  in  his  wagon.  I'm  going  to 
Miss  Blake's  ranch.  She  invited  me." 

"Miss  Blake?  You  mean  the  lady  that  wears  pants? 
You  don't  mean  it!  Well,  that's  right  amusing."  He 
laughed. 

Sheila  stirred  angrily.  "I  can't  see  why  it's 
amusing." 

He  sobered  at  once.  "Well,  ma'am,  maybe  it  is  n't. 
No,  I  reckon  it  is  n't.  How  long  will  you  stay?" 

Sheila  gave  a  big,  sobbing  sigh.  "I  don't  know.  If 
she  likes  me  and  if  I  'm  happy,  I  '11  stay  there  always." 
She  added  with  a  queer,  dazed  realization  of  the 
truth:  "I've  nowhere  else  to  go." 

"Have  n't  you  any  —  folks?"  he  asked. 


180  THE  STARS 

"No." 

"Got  tired  of  Millings?" 

"Yes  — very." 

"I  don't  blame  you!  It's  not  much  of  a  town. 
You'll  like  Hidden  Creek.  And  Miss  Blake's  ranch 
is  a  mighty  pretty  place,  lonesome  but  wonderfully 
pretty.  Right  on  a  bend  of  the  creek,  'way  up  the 
valley,  close  under  the  mountains.  But  can  you  stand 
loneliness,  Miss  —  What  is  your  name?" 

There  were  curious  breaks  in  his  manner  of  a 
Western  cowboy,  breaks  that  startled  Sheila  like 
little  echoes  from  her  life  abroad  and  in  the  East. 
There  was  a  quickness  of  voice  and  manner,  an  im 
patience,  a  hot  and  nervous  something,  and  his  voice 
and  accent  suggested  training.  The  abrupt  question, 
for  instance,  was  not  in  the  least  characteristic  of  a 
Westerner. 

"My  name  is  Sheila  Arundel.  I  don't  know  yours 
either." 

"Do  you  come  from  the  East?" 

"Yes.  From  New  York."  He  gave  an  infinitesimal 
jerk.  "But  I've  lived  abroad  nearly  all  my  life.  I 
think  it  would  be  politer  if  you  would  answer  my 
question  now." 

She  felt  that  he  controlled  an  anxious  breath.  "My 
name  is  Hilliard,"  he  said,  and  he  pronounced  the 
name  with  a  queer  bitter  accent  as  though  the  taste 
of  it  was  unpleasant  to  his  tongue.  "Cosine  Hilliard. 
Don't  you  think  it's  a  —  nice  name?" 


ADVENTURE  181 

For  half  a  second  she  was  silent;  then  she  spoke 
with  careful  unconsciousness.  "Yes.  Very  nice  and 
very  unusual.  Hilliard  is  an  English  name,  is  n't  it? 
Where  did  the  Cosme  come  from?" 

It  was  well  done,  so  well  that  she  felt  a  certain 
tightening  of  his  body  relax  and  his  voice  sounded 
fuller.  "That's  Spanish.  I've  some  Spanish  blood. 
Here's  Buffin's  ranch.  We're  getting  down." 

Sheila  was  remembering  vividly;  Sylvester  had 
come  into  her  compartment.  She  could  see  the  rolling 
Nebraskan  country  slipping  by  the  window  of  the 
train.  She  could  see  his  sallow  fingers  folding  the 
paper  so  that  she  could  conveniently  read  a  para 
graph.  She  remembered  his  gentle,  pensive  speech. 
"Ain't  it  funny,  though,  those  things  happen  in  the 
slums  and  they  happen  in  the  smart  set,  but  they 
don't  happen  near  so  often  to  just  middling  folks 
like  you  and  me!  Don't  it  sound  like  a  Tenderloin 
tale,  though,  South  American  wife  and  American 
husband  and  her  getting  jealous  and  up  and  shoot 
ing  him?  Money  sure  makes  love  popular.  Now,  if  it 
had  been  poor  folks,  why,  they  'd  have  hardly  missed 
a  day's  work,  but  just  because  these  Hilliards  have 
got  spondulix  they'll  run  a  paragraph  about  'em  in 
the  papers  for  a  month."  —  Sheila  began  to  make 
comparisons:  a  South  American  wife  and  an  Ameri 
can  husband,  and  here,  this  young  man  with  the 
Spanish-American  name  and  the  Spanish-Saxon 
physique,  and  a  voice  that  showed  training  and  fal- 


182  THE  STARS 

tered  over  the  pronouncing  of  the  "Hilliard"  as 
though  he  expected  it  to  be  too  well  remembered. 
Had  there  been  some  mention  in  the  paper  of  a  son? 
—  a  son  in  the  West?  —  a  son  under  a  cloud  of  some 
sort?  But  —  she  checked  her  spinning  of  romance  — 
this  youth  was  too  genuine  a  cowboy,  the  way  he 
rode,  the  way  he  moved,  held  himself,  his  phrases, 
his  turn  of  speech!  With  all  that  wealth  behind  him 
how  had  he  been  allowed  to  grow  up  like  this?  No, 
her  notion  was  unreasonable,  almost  impossible.  Al 
though  dismissed,  it  hung  about  her  mental  pre 
sentment  of  him,  however,  like  a  rather  baleful  aura, 
not  without  fascination  to  a  seventeen-year-old  im 
agination.  So  busy  was  she  with  her  fabrications 
that  several  miles  of  road  slipped  by  unnoticed. 
There  came  a  strange  confusion  in  her  thoughts.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  was  arguing  the  Hilliard  case 
with  some  one.  Then  with  a  horrible  start  she  saw 
that  the  face  of  her  opponent  was  Sylvester's  and 
she  pushed  it  violently  away  .  .  . 

"Don't  you  go  to  sleep,"  said  Hilliard  softly, 
laughing  a  little.  "You  might  fall  off." 

"I  —  I  was  asleep,"  Sheila  confessed,  in  confusion 
at  discovering  that  her  head  had  dropped  against 
him.  "How  dark  it's  getting!  We're  in  the  valley, 
are  n't  we?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  we're  most  there."  He  hesitated. 
"Miss  Arundel,  I  think  I'd  best  let  you  get  down 
just  before  we  get  to  Rusty." 


ADVENTURE  183 

''Get  down?  Why?" 

He  cleared  his  throat,  half-turning  to  her.  In  the 
dusky  twilight,  that  was  now  very  nearly  darkness, 
his  face  was  troubled  and  ashamed,  like  the  face  of 
a  boy  who  tries  to  make  little  of  a  scrape.  "Well, 
ma'am,  yesterday,  the  folks  in  Rusty  kind  of  lost 
their  heads.  They  had  a  bad  case  of  Sherlock  Holmes. 
I  bought  a  horse  up  the  valley  from  a  chap  who  was 
all-fired  anxious  to  sell  him,  and  before  I  knew  it  I 
was  playing  the  title  part  in  a  man-hunt.  It  seems 
that  I  was  riding  one  of  a  string  this  chap  had  rustled 
from  several  of  the  natives.  They  knew  the  horse  and 
that  was  enough  for  their  nervous  system.  They  had 
never  set  eyes  on  me  before  and  they  would  n't  take 
my  word  for  my  blameless  past.  They  told  me  to 
keep  my  story  for  trial  when  they  took  me  over  to 
the  court.  Meanwhile  they  gave  me  a  free  lodging  in 
their  pen.  Miss  Arundel  —  "  Hilliard  dropped  his 
ironic  tone  and  spoke  in  a  low,  tense  voice  of  child-, 
like  horror.  His  face  stiffened  and  paled.  "That  was 
awful.  To  be  locked  in.  Not  to  be  able  to  get  fresh 
breath  in  your  lungs.  Not  to  be  able  to  go  where  you 
please,  when  you  please.  I  can't  tell  you  what  it's 
like.  ...  I  can't  stand  it!  I  can't  stand  a  minute  of 
it!  I  was  in  that  pen  six  hours.  I  felt  I'd  go  loco  if  I 
was  there  all  night.  I  guess  I  am  a  kind  of  fool.  I 
broke  jail  early  in  the  morning  and  caught  up  the 
sheriff's  horse.  They  got  a  shot  or  two  at  me,  hit  my 
wrist,  but  I  made  my  getaway.  This  horse  is  not 


184  THE  STARS 

much  on  looks,  but  he  sure  can  get  over  the  sage 
brush.  I  was  coming  over  to  see  you." 

There  was  that  in  his  voice  when  he  said  this  that 
touched  Sheila's  heart,  profoundly.  This  restless, 
violent  young  adventurer,  homeless,  foot-loose,  with 
out  discipline  or  duty,  had  turned  to  her  in  his  trouble 
as  instinctively  as  though  she  had  been  his  mother. 
This,  because  she  had  once  served  him.  Something 
stirred  in  Sheila's  heart. 

"And  then,"  Hilliard  went  on,  "I  was  going  to 
get  down  to  Arizona.  But  when  I  heard  you  were 
coming  over  into  Hidden  Creek,  it  seemed  like  fool 
ishness  to  cut  myself  off  from  the  country  by  run 
ning  away  from  nothing.  Of  course  there  are  ways 
to  prove  my  identity  with  those  fellows.  It  only 
means  putting  up  with  a  few  days  of  pen."  He  gave 
a  sigh.  "But  you  can  understand,  ma'am,  that  this 
is  n't  just  the  horse  that  will  give  you  quietest  en 
trance  into  Rusty  and  that  I'm  not  just  one  of  the 
First  Citizens." 

"But,"  said  Sheila,  "if  they  see  you  riding  in  with 
me,  they  certainly  won't  shoot." 

He  laughed  admiringly.  "You're  game!"  he  said. 
"But,  Miss  Arundel,  they're  not  likely  to  do  any 
more  shooting.  It 's  not  a  man  riding  into  Rusty  that 
they're  after.  It's  a  man  riding  out  of  Rusty.  They'll 
know  I'm  coming  to  give  myself  up." 

"I'll  just  stay  here,"  said  Sheila  firmly. 

"I  can't  let  you." 


ADVENTURE  185 

"I'm  too  tired  to  walk.  I'm  too  sleepy.  It'll  be 
all  right." 

"Then  I  '11  walk."  He  pulled  in  his  horse,  but  at  the 
instant  stiffened  in  his  saddle  and  wheeled  about  on 
the  road.  A  rattle  of  galloping  hoofs  struck  the 
ground  behind  them;  two  riders  wheeled  and  stopped. 
One  drew  close  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Say,  stranger,  shake,"  he  said.  "We've  been 
kickin'  up  the  dust  to  beg  your  pardon.  We  got  the 
real  rustler  this  mornin'  shortly  after  you  left.  I'm 
plumb  disgusted  and  disheartened  with  young  Tom- 
mins  for  losin'  his  head  an'  shootin'  off  his  gun.  He's 
a  dern  fool,  that  kid,  a  regular  tenderfoot.  Nothin' 
won't  ever  cure  him  short  of  growin'  up.  Come  from 
Chicago,  anyway.  One  of  them  Eastern  towns.  I  see 
he  got  you,  too." 

"Winged  me,"  smiled  Hilliard.  "Well,  I'm  right 
pleased  I  won't  have  to  spend  another  night  in  your 
pen." 

"You're  entered  for  drinks.  The  sheriff  stands 
'em."  Here  he  bowed  to  Sheila,  removing  his  hat. 

"This  lady"  — Hilliard  performed  the  introduc 
tion  —  "lost  her  horse  on  The  Hill.  She's  aiming  to 
stop  at  Rusty  for  to-night." 

The  man  who  had  spoken  turned  to  his  silent  com 
panion.  "Ride  ahead,  Shorty,  why  don't  you?"  he 
said  indignantly,  "and  tell  Mrs.  Lander  there's  a 
lady  that'll  want  to  sleep  in  Number  Five." 

The  other  horseman,  after  a  swift,  searching  look 


186  THE  STARS 

at  Sheila,  said  "Sure,"  in  a  very  mild,  almost  cooing, 
voice  and  was  off.  It  looked  to  Sheila  like  a  runaway. 
But  the  men  showed  no  concern. 

They  jogged  companionably  on  their  way.  Fifteen 
minutes  later  they  crossed  a  bridge  and  pulled  up 
before  a  picket  fence  and  a  gate. 

They  were  in  Rusty. 


CHAPTER  III 
JOURNEY'S  END 

THE  social  life  of  Rusty,  already  complicated  by  the 
necessity  it  was  under  to  atone  for  a  mistake,  was 
almost  unbearably  discomposed  by  the  arrival  of  a 
strange  lady.  This  was  no  light  matter,  be  it  under 
stood.  Hidden  Creek  was  not  a  resort  for  ladies:  and 
so  signal  an  event  as  the  appearance  of  a  lady,  a 
young  lady,  a  pretty  young  lady,  demanded  con 
siderable  effort.  But  Rusty  had  five  minutes  for 
preparation.  By  the  time  Hilliard  rode  up  to  Lander's 
gate  a  representative  group  of  citizens  had  gathered 
there.  One  contingent  took  charge  of  Hilliard  — 
married  men,  a  little  unwilling,  and  a  few  even  more 
reluctant  elders,  and  led  him  to  the  bowl  of  repa 
ration  which  was  to  wash  away  all  memory  of  his 
wrongs.  The  others,  far  the  larger  group,  escorted 
Sheila  up  the  twelve  feet  of  board  walk  to  the  porch 
of  hospitality  filled  by  the  massive  person  of  Mrs. 
Lander.  On  that  brief  walk  Sheila  was  fathered, 
brothered,  grandfathered,  husbanded,  and  befriended, 
and  on  the  porch,  all  in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Lander, 
she  was  mothered,  sistered,  and  grandmothered.  Up 
the  stairs  to  Number  Five  she  was  "eased"  —  there 
is  no  other  word  to  express  the  process  —  and  down 
again  she  was  eased  to  supper,  where  in  a  daze  of 


188  THE  STARS 

fatigue  she  ate  with  surprising  relish  tough  fried 
meat  and  large  wet  potatoes,  a  bowl  of  raw  canned 
tomatoes  and  a  huge  piece  of  heavy-crusted  pre- 
served-peach  pie.  She  also  drank,  with  no  effect  upon 
her  drowsiness,  an  enormous  thick  cupful  of  strong 
coffee,  slightly  tempered  by  canned  milk.  She  sat  at 
the  foot  of  the  long  table,  opposite  Mr.  Lander,  a  fat, 
sly-looking  man  whose  eyes  twinkled  with  a  look  of 
mysterious  inner  amusement,  caused,  probably,  by 
astonishment  at  his  own  respectability.  He  had  be 
hind  him  a  career  of  unprecedented  villainy,  and  that 
he  should  end  here  at  Rusty  as  the  solid  and  well- 
considered  keeper  of  the  roadhouse  was,  no  doubt, 
a  perpetual  tickle  to  his  consciousness.  Down  either 
side  of  the  table  were  silent  and  impressive  figures 
busy  with  their  food.  Courteous  and  quiet  they  were 
and  beautifully  uninquiring,  except  in  the  matter  of 
her  supplies,  The  yellow  lamplight  shone  on  brown 
bearded  and  brown  clean-shaven  faces,  rugged  and 
strong  and  clean-cut.  These  bared  throats  and  thickly 
thatched  heads,  these  faces,  lighted  by  extraordinary, 
far-seeing  brilliant,  brooding  eyes,  reminded  Sheila 
of  a  master's  painting  of  The  Last  Supper  —  so  did 
their  coarse  clothing  melt  into  the  gold-brown  shad 
ows  of  the  room  and  so  did  their  hands  and  throats 
and  faces  pick  themselves  out  in  mellow  lights  and 
darknesses. 

After  the  meal  she  dragged  herself  upstairs  to 
Number  Five,  made  scant  use  of  nicked  basin,  spout- 


JOURNEY'S  END  189 

less  pitcher,  and  rough  clean  towel,  blew  out  her  little 
shadeless  lamp,  and  crept  in  under  an  immense, 
elephantine,  grateful  weight  of  blankets  and  patch 
work  quilts,  none  too  fresh,  probably,  though  the 
sheet  blankets  were  evidently  newly  washed.  Of 
muslin  sheeting  there  was  none.  The  pillow  was  flat 
and  musty.  Sheila  cuddled  into  it  as  though  it  had 
been  a  mother's  shoulder.  That  instant  she  was 
asleep.  Once  in  the  night  she  woke.  A  dream  waked 
her.  It  seemed  to  her  that  a  great  white  flower  had 
blossomed  in  the  window  of  her  room  and  that  in  the 
heart  of  it  was  Dickie's  face,  tender  and  as  pale  as  a 
petal.  It  drew  near  to  her  and  bent  over  her  wistfully. 
She  held  out  her  arms  with  a  piteous  longing  to  com 
fort  his  wistf ulness  and  woke.  Her  face  was  wet  with 
the  mystery  of  dream  tears.  The  flower  dwindled  to 
a  small  white  moon  standing  high  in  the  upper  pane 
of  one  of  the  uncurtained  windows.  The  room  was 
full  of  eager  mountain  air.  She  could  hear  a  water- 
wheel  turning  with  a  soft  plash  in  the  stream  below. 
There  was  no  other  sound.  The  room  smelt  of  snowy 
heights  and  brilliant  stars.  She  breathed  deep  and, 
quite  as  though  she  had  breathed  a  narcotic,  slept 
suddenly  again.  This,  before  any  memory  of  Hudson 
burned  her  consciousness. 

The  next  morning  she  found  that  her  journey  had 
been  carefully  arranged.  Thatcher  had  come  and 
gone.  The  responsibility  for  her  further  progress  had 
been  shifted  to  the  shoulders  of  a  teamster,  whose 


190  THE  STARS 

bearded  face,  except  for  the  immense  humor  and 
gallantry  of  his  gray  eyes,  was  startlingly  like  one  of 
Albrecht  Diirer's  apostles.  Her  bundle  _was  in  his 
wagon,  half  of  his  front  seat  was  cushioned  for  her. 
After  breakfast  she  was  again  escorted  down  the 
board  walk  to  the  gate.  Mrs.  Lander  fastened  a  huge 
bunch  of  sweet  peas  to  her  coat  and  kissed  her  cheek. 
Sheila  bade  innumerable  good-byes,  expressed  in 
numerable  thanks.  For  Hilliard's  absence  Rusty 
offered  its  apologies.  They  said  that  he  had  been 
much  entertained  and,  after  the  hurt  he  had  suffered 
to  his  wrist,  late  sleep  was  a  necessity.  Sheila  under 
stood.  The  bowl  of  reparation  had  been  emptied  to 
its  last  atoning  dregs.  She  mounted  to  the  side  of 
"Saint  Mark,"  she  bowed  and  smiled,  made  prom 
ises,  gave  thanks  again,  and  waved  herself  out  of 
Rusty  at  last.  She  had  never  felt  so  flattered  and  so 
warmed  at  heart. 

"I'm  agoin',"  quoth  Saint  Mark,  "right  clost  to 
Miss  Blake's.  If  we  don't  overtake  her  —  and  that 
hoss  of  hers  sure  travels  wonderful  fast,  somethin' 
wonderful,  yes,  ma'am,  by  God  —  excuse  me,  lady  — 
it's  sure  surprisin'  the  way  that  skinny  little  hoss  of 
hers  will  travel  —  why,  I  c'n  t'ake  you  acrost  the 
ford.  There  ain't  no  way  of  gettin'  into  Miss  Blake's 
exceptin'  by  the  ford.  And  then  I  c'n  take  my  team 
back  to  the  road.  From  the  ford  it's  a  quarter-mile 
walk  to  Miss  Blake's  house.  You  c'n  cache  your 
bundle  and  she  '11  likely  get  it  for  you  in  the  mornin'. 


JOURNEY'S  END  191 

We  had  ought  to  be  there  by  sundown.  Her  trail  from 
the  ford's  clear  enough.  I'm  a-takin'  this  lumber  to 
the  Gover'ment  bridge  forty  mile  up.  Yes,  by  God 
—  excuse  me,  lady  —  it's  agoin'  to  be  jest  a  dandy 
bridge  until  the  river  takes  it  out  next  spring,  by 
God  —  you'll  have  to  excuse  me  again,  lady." 

He  seemed  rather  mournfully  surprised  by  the  fre 
quent  need  for  these  apologies.  "It  was  my  raisin', 
lady,"  he  explained.  "My  father  was  a  Methody 
preacher.  Yes  'm,  he  sure  was,  by  God,  yes  —  excuse 
me  again,  lady.  He  was  always  a-prayin'.  It  kinder 
got  me  into  bad  habits.  Yes,  ma'am.  Those  words 
you  learn  when  you're  a  kid  they  do  stick  in  your 
mind.  By  God,  yes,  they  do  —  excuse  me,  lady. 
That's  why  I  run  away.  I  could  n't  stand  so  much 
prayin'  all  the  time.  And  bein'  licked  when  I  was  n't 
bein'  prayed  at.  He  sure  licked  me,  that  dern  son 
of  a  —  Oh,  by  God,  lady,  you  '11  just  hev  to  excuse 
me,  please."  He  wiped  his  forehead.  "I  reckon  I 
better  keep  still." 

Sheila  struggled,  then  gave  way  to  mirth.  Her 
companion,  after  a  doubtful  look,  relaxed  into  his 
wide,  bearded  smile.  After  that  matters  were  on  an 
easy  footing  between  them  and  the  "excuse  me, 
lady,"  was,  for  the  most  part,  left  to  her  under 
standing. 

They  drifted  like  a  lurching  vessel  through  the 
long  crystal  day.  Never  before  this  journey  into 
Hidden  Creek  had  time  meant  anything  to  Sheila 


192  THE  STARS 

but  a  series  of  incidents,  occupations,  or  emotions; 
now  first  she  understood  the  Greek  impersonation  of 
the  dancing  hours.  She  had  watched  the  varying 
faces  the  day  turns  to  those  who  fold  their  hands  and 
still  their  minds  to  watch  its  progress.  She  had  seen 
the  gradual  heightening  of  brilliance  from  dawn  to 
noon,  and  then  the  fading-out  from  that  high,  white- 
hot  glare,  through  gold  and  rose  and  salmon  and 
purple,  to  the  ashy  lavenders  of  twilight  and  so  into 
gray  and  the  metallic,  glittering  coldness  of  the 
mountain  night.  It  was  the  purple  hour  when  she 
said  good-bye  to  Saint  Mark  on  the  far  side  of  a  swift 
and  perilous  ford.  She  was  left  standing  in  the  shadow 
of  a  near-by  mountain-side  while  he  rode  away  into 
the  still  golden  expanse  of  valley  beyond  the  leafy 
course  of  the  stream.  Hidden  Creek  had  narrowed 
and  deepened.  It  ran  past  Sheila  now  with  a  loud 
clapping  and  knocking  at  its  cobbled  bed  and  with 
an  over-current  of  noisy  murmurs.  The  hurrying 
water  was  purple,  with  flecks  of  lavender  and  gold. 
The  trees  on  its  banks  were  topped  with  emerald  fire 
where  they  caught  the  light  of  the  sun.  The  trail  to 
Miss  Blake's  ranch  ran  along  the  river  on  the  edge  of 
a  forest  of  pines.  At  this  hour  they  looked  like  a  wall 
into  which  some  magic  permitted  the  wanderer  to 
walk  interminably.  Sheila  was  glad  that  she  did  not 
have  to  make  use  of  this  wizard  invitation.  She 
"cached"  her  bundle,  as  Saint  Mark  had  advised,  in 
a  thicket  near  the  stream  and  walked  resolutely  for- 


JOURNEY'S  END  193 

ward  along  the  trail.  Not  even  when  her  pony  had 
left  her  on  The  Hill  had  she  felt  so  desolate  or  so 
afraid. 

She  could  not  understand  why  she  was  here  on  her 
way  to  the  ranch  of  this  strange  woman.  She  felt 
astonished  by  her  loneliness,  by  her  rashness,  by  the 
dreadful  lack  in  her  life  of  all  the  usual  protections. 
Was  youth  meant  so  to  venture  itself?  This  was  what 
young  men  had  done  since  the  beginning  of  time.  She 
thought  of  Hilliard.  His  life  must  have  been  just  such 
a  series  of  disconnected  experiments.  Danger  was  in 
the  very  pattern  of  such  freedom.  But  she  was  a  girl, 
only  a  girl  as  the  familiar  phrase  expresses  it  —  a 
seventeen-year-old  girl.  She  was  reminded  of  a  pa 
thetic  and  familiar  line,  "A  woman  naturally  born  to 
fears  ..."  A  wholesome  reaction  to  pride  followed 
and,  suddenly,  an  amusing  memory  of  Miss  Blake, 
of  her  corduroy  trousers  stuffed  into  boots,  of  her 
broad,  strong  body,  her  square  face  with  its  firm  lips 
and  masterful  red-brown  eyes;  a  very  heartening 
memory  for  such  a  moment.  Here  was  a  woman  that 
had  adventured  without  fear  and  had  quite  evidently 
met  with  no  disaster. 

Sheila  came  to  a  little  tumbling  tributary  and 
crossed  it  on  a  log.  On  the  farther  side  the  trail  broad 
ened,  grew  more  distinct;  through  an  opening  in  tall, 
gray,  misty  cottonwoods  she  saw  the  corner  of  a  log 
house.  At  the  same  instant  a  dreadful  tumult  broke 
out.  The  sound  sent  Sheila's  blood  in  a  slapping  wave 


194  THE  STARS 

back  upon  her  heart.  All  of  her  body  turned  cold. 
She  was  fastened  by  stone  feet  to  the  ground.  It  was 
the  laughter  of  a  mob  of  damned  souls,  an  inhuman, 
despairing  mockery  of  God.  It  tore  the  quiet  evening 
into  shreds  of  fear.  This  house  was  a  madhouse  hold 
ing  revelry.  No  —  of  course,  they  were  wolves,  a  pack 
of  wolves.  Then,  with  a  warmth  of  returning  circula 
tion,  Sheila  remembered  Miss  Blake's  dogs,  the  de 
scendants  of  the  wolf-dog  that  had  littered  on  the 
body  of  a  dead  man.  Quarter- wolf,  was  it?  These 
voices  had  no  hint  of  the  homely  barking  of  a  watch 
dog,  the  friend  of  man's  loneliness !  But  Sheila  braced 
her  courage.  Miss  Blake  made  good  use  of  her  pack. 
They  pulled  her  sled,  winters,  in  Hidden  Creek.  They 
must  then  be  partly  civilized  by  service.  If  only  — 
she  smiled  a  desperate  smile  at  the  uncertainty  — 
they  did  n't  tear  her  to  pieces  when  she  came  out 
from  the  shelter  of  the  trees.  There  was  very  great 
courage  in  Sheila's  short,  lonely  march  through  the 
little  grove  of  cotton  wood  trees.  She  was  as  white  as 
the  mountain  columbine.  She  walked  slowly  and  held 
her  head  high.  She  had  taken  up  a  stone  for  comfort. 
At  the  end  of  the  trees  she  saw  a  house,  a  three- 
sided,  one-storied  building  of  logs  very  pleasantly  set 
in  a"  circle  of  aspen  trees,  backed  by  taller  firs,  top 
pling  over  which  stood  a  great  sharp  crest  of  rocky 
ledges,  nine  thousand  feet  high,  edged  with  the  fire 
of  sunset.  At  one  side  of  the  house  eight  big  dogs  were 
leaping  at  the  ends  of  their  chains.  They  were  tied  to 


JOURNEY'S  END  195 

trees  or  to  small  kennels  at  the  foot  of  trees.  And, 
God  be  thanked !  Sheila  let  fall  her  stone  —  they 
were  all  tied. 

The  door  at  the  end  of  the  nearest  wing  of  the 
house  opened  and  Miss  Blake  stood  on  the  threshold 
and  held  up  her  hands.  At  sight  of  her  the  dogs 
stopped  their  howling  instantly  and  cringed  on  their 
bellies  or  sat  yawning  on^their  bushy  haunches.  Miss 
Blake's  resonant,  deep  voice  seemed  to  pounce  upon 
Sheila  above  the  chatter  of  the  stream  which,  run 
ning  about  three  sides  of  the  glade,  was  now,  at  the 
silence  of  the  dogs,  incessantly  audible. 

"Well,  if  it  is  n't  the  little  barmaid!"  cried  Miss 
Blake,  and  advanced,  wiping  her  hand  on  a  white 
apron  tied  absurdly  over  the  corduroy  trousers  and 
cowboy  boots.  "Well,  if  you  aren't  as  welcome  as 
the  flowers  in  May!  So  you  thought  you'd  leave  the 
street-lamps  and  come  take  a  look  at  the  stars?" 

They  met  and  Sheila  took  the  strong,  square  hand. 
She  was  afflicted  by  a  sudden  dizziness. 

"That 's  it,"  she  faltered;  "this  time  I  thought  I'd 
try  —  the  stars." 

With  that  she  fell  against  Miss  Blake  and  felt,  just 
before  she  dropped  into  blackness,  that  she  had  been 
saved  by  firm  arms  from  falling  to  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BEASTS 

THE  city  rippled  into  light.  It  bloomed,  blossom  on 
blossom,  like  some  enchanted  jungle  under  the  heavy 
summer  sky.  Dickie  sat  on  a  bench  in  Washington 
Square.  He  sat  forward,  his  hands  hanging  between 
his  knees,  his  lips  parted,  and  he  watched  the  night. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  filled  with  the  clamor  of 
iron-throated  beasts  running  to  and  fro  after  their 
prey.  The  heat  was  a  humid,  solid,  breathless  weight — 
a  heat  unknown  to  Millings.  Dickie  wore  his  thread 
bare  blue  serge  suit.  It  felt  like  a  garment  of  lead. 

There  were  other  people  on  the  benches  —  limp 
and  sodden  outlines.  Dickie  had  glanced  at  them  and 
had  glanced  away.  He  did  not  want  to  think  that  he 
looked  like  one  of  these  —  half -crushed  insects,  — 
bruised  into  immobility.  A  bus  swept  round  the  cor 
ner  and  moved  with  a  sort  of  topheavy,  tipsy  dignity 
under  the  white  arch.  It  was  loaded  with  humanity, 
its  top  black  with  heads.  "It  ain't  a  crowd,"  thought 
Dickie;  "it's  a  swarm."  His  eyes  followed  the  ragged 
sky-line.  "Why  is  it  so  horrible? "  he  asked  himself  — 
"horrible  and  beautiful  and  sort  of  poisonous  —  it 
plumb  scares  a  fellow  —  "A  diminished  moon,  bat 
tered  and  dim  like  a  trodden  silver  coin,  stood  up 
above  him.  By  tilting  his  head  he  could  look  directly 


BEASTS  197 

at  it  through  an  opening  in  the  dusty,  electric-bright 
ened  boughs.  The  stars  were  pin-pricks  here  and 
there  in  the  dense  sky.  The  city  flaunted  its  easy 
splendor  triumphantly  before  their  pallid  insignifi 
cance.  Tarnished  purities,  forgotten  ecstasies,  burned- 
out  inspirations  —  so  the  city  shouted  raucously  to 
its  faded  firmament. 

Dickie's  fingers  slid  into  his  pocket.  The  moon  had 
reminded  him  of  his  one  remaining  dime.  He  might 
have  bought  a  night's  lodging  with  it,  but  after  one 
experience  of  such  lodgings  he  preferred  his  present 
quarters.  In  Dickie's  mind  there  was  no  association 
of  shame  or  ignominy  with  a  night  spent  under  the 
sky.  But  fear  and  ignominy  tainted  and  clung  to  his 
memory  of  that  other  night.  He  had  saved  his  dime 
deliberately,  going  hungry  rather  than  admit  to  him 
self  that  he  was  absolutely  at  the  end  of  his  resources. 
To-morrow  he  would  not  especially  need  that  dime. 
He  had  a  job.  He  would  begin  to  draw  pay.  In  his 
own  phrasing  he  would  "buy  him  a  square  meal  and 
rent  him  a  room  somewhere."  Upon  these  two  pros 
pects  his  brain  fastened  with  a  leech-like  persistency. 
And  yet  above  anything  he  had  faced  in  his  life  he 
dreaded  the  job  and  the  room.  The  inspiration  of  his 
flight,  the  impulse  that  had  sped  him  out  of  Millings 
like  a  fire-tipped  arrow,  that  determination  to  find 
Sheila,  to  rehabilitate  himself  in  her  esteem,  to  serve 
her,  to  make  a  fresh  start,  had  fallen  from  him  like  a 
dead  flame.  The  arrow-flight  was  spent.  He  had  not 


198  THE  STARS 

found  Sheila.  He  had  no  way  of  finding  her.  She  was 
not  at  her  old  address.  Her  father's  friend,  the  Mr. 
Hazeldean  that  had  brought  Sylvester  to  Marcus's 
studio,  knew  nothing  of  her.  Mrs.  Halligan,  her 
former  landlady,  knew  nothing  of  her.  Dickie,  hav 
ing  summoned  Mrs.  Halligan  to  her  doorsill,  had 
looked  past  her  up  the  narrow,  steep  staircase.  "Did 
she  live  away  up  there?"  he  had  asked.  "Yes,  sorr. 
And  't  was  a  climb  for  the  poor  little  crayture,  but 
there  was  days  when  she'd  come  down  it  like  a  burrd 
to  meet  her  Pa."  Dickie  had  faltered,  white  and 
empty-hearted,  before  the  kindly  Irishwoman  who 
remembered  so  vividly  Sheila's  downward,  winged 
rush  of  welcome.  For  several  hours  after  his  visit  to 
the  studio  building  he  had  wandered  aimlessly  about, 
then  his  hunger  had  bitten  at  him  and  he  had  begun 
to  look  for  work.  It  was  not  difficult  to  find.  A  small 
restaurant  displayed  a  need  of  waiters.  Dickie  ap 
plied.  He  had  often  "helped  out"  in  that  capacity, 
as  in  most  others,  at  The  Aura.  He  cited  his  expe 
rience,  referred  to  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  and  was  engaged. 
The  pay  seemed  to  him  sufficient  to  maintain  life.  So 
much  for  that!  Then  he  went  to  his  bench  and 
watched  the  day  pant  itself  into  the  night.  His  lone 
liness  was  a  pitiful  thing;  his  utter  lack  of  hope  or 
inspiration  was  a  terrible  thing. 

But  as  the  night  went  slowly  by,  he  faced  this 
desolation  with  extraordinary  fortitude.  It  was  part 
of  that  curious  detachment,  that  strange  gift  of  im- 


BEASTS  199 

personal  observation.  Dickie  bore  no  grudges  against 
life.  His  spirit  had  a  fashion  of  standing  away,  tip 
toe,  on  wings.  It  stood  so  now  like  a  presence  above 
the  miserable,  half-starved  body  that  occupied  the 
bench  and  suffered  the  sultriness  of  August  and  the 
pains  of  abstinence.  Dickie's  wide  eyes,  that  watched 
the  city  and  found  it  horrible  and  beautiful  and  fright 
ening,  were  entirely  empty  of  bitterness  and  of  self- 
pity.  They  had  a  sort  of  wistful  patience. 

There  came  at  last  a  cool  little  wind  and  under  its 
ministration  Dickie  let  fall  his  head  on  his  arms  and 
slept.  He  was  blessed  by  a  dream:  shallow  water 
clapping  over  a  cobbled  bed,  the  sharp  rustle  of  wind- 
edged  aspen  leaves,  and  two  stars,  tender  and  misty, 
that  bent  close  and  smiled.  He  woke  up  and  stared  at 
the  city.  He  got  up  and  walked  about.  He  was  faint 
now  and  felt  chilled,  although  the  asphalt  was  still 
soft  underfoot  and  smelled  of  hot  tar.  As  he  moved 
listlessly  along  the  pavement,  a  girl  brushed  against 
him,  looked  up,  and  murmured  to  him.  She  was 
small  and  slight.  His  heart  seemed  to  leap  away  from 
the  contact  and  then  to  leap  almost  irresistibly  to 
meet  it.  He  turned  away  and  went  back  quickly  to 
ward  the  Square.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  fol 
lowed.  He  looked  over  his  shoulder  furtively.  But  the 
girl  had  disappeared  and  there  was  no  one  in  sight 
but  a  man  who  walked  unsteadily.  Dickie  suddenly 
knew  why  he  had  saved  that  dime.  The  energy  of 
a  definite  purpose  came  to  him.  He  remembered  a 


200  THE  STARS 

swinging  door  back  there  around  a  corner,  but  when 
he  reached  the  saloon,  it  was  closed.  Dickie  had  a 
humiliating  struggle  with  tears.  He  went  back  to  his 
bench  and  sat  there,  trembling  and  swearing  softly 
to  himself.  He  had  not  the  strength  to  look  farther. 
He  was  no  longer  the  Dickie  of  Millings,  a  creature 
possessed  of  loneliness  and  vacancy  and  wandering 
fancies,  he  was  no  longer  Sheila's  lover,  he  was  a  prey 
to  strong  desires.  In  truth,  thought  Dickie,  seeking 
even  now  with  his  deprecatory  smile  for  likenesses 
and  words,  the  city  was  full  of  beasts,  silent  and 
stealthy  and  fanged.  That  spirit,  aloof,  maintained 
its  sweet  detachment.  Beneath  its  observation  Dickie 
fought  with  a  grim,  unreasoning  panic  that  was  very 
like  the  fear  of  a  man  pursued  by  wolves. 


CHAPTER,  V 
NEIGHBOR  NEIGHBOR 

EVEN  in  the  shadow  of  after  events,  those  first  two 
months  at  Miss  Blake's  ranch  swam  like  a  golden 
galleon  through  Sheila's  memory.  Never  had  she  felt 
such  well-being  of  body,  mind,  and  soul.  Never  had 
she  known  such  dawns  and  days,  such  dusks,  such 
sapphire  nights.  Sleep  came  like  a  highwayman  to 
hold  up  an  eager  traveler,  but  came  irresistibly.  It 
caught  her  up  out  of  life  as  it  catches  up  a  healthy 
child.  Never  before  had  she  worked  so  heartily :  out 
of  doors  in  the  vegetable  garden ;  indoors  in  the  sunny 
kitchen,  its  windows  and  door  open  to  the  tonic  air; 
never  before  had  she  eaten  so  heartily.  Nothing  had 
tasted  like  the  trout  they  caught  in  Hidden  Creek, 
like  the  juicy,  sweet  vegetables  they  picked  from 
their  own  laborious  rows,  like  the  berries  they  gath 
ered  in  nervous  anticipation  of  that  rival  berryer,  the 
brown  bear.  And  Miss  Blake's  casual  treatment  of 
her,  half -bluff,  half -mocking,  her  curt,  good-humored 
commands,  her  cordial  bullying,  were  a  rest  to  nerves 
more  raveled  than  Sheila  knew  from  her  experience 
in  Millings.  She  grew  rosy  brown;  her  hair  seemed  to 
sparkle  along  its  crisp  ripples;  her  little  throat  filled 
itself  out,  round  and  firm;  she  walked  with  a  spring 
and  a  swing;  she  sang  and  whistled,  no  Mrs.  Hudson 


£02  THE  STARS 

near  to  scowl  at  her.  Dish-washing  was  not  drudgery, 
cooking  was  a  positive  pleasure.  Everything  smelt  so 
good.  She  was  always  shutting  her  eyes  to  enjoy  the 
smell  of  things,  forgetting  to  listen  in  order  to  taste 
thoroughly,  forgetting  to  look  in  the  delight  of  listen 
ing  to  such  musical  silences,  and  forgetting  even  to 
breathe  in  the  rapture  of  sight  .  .  .  Miss  Blake  and 
she  put  up  preserves,  and  Sheila  had  to  invent  jests 
to  find  some  pretext  for  her  laughter,  so  ridiculous 
was  the  look  of  that  broad  square  back,  its  hair  short 
above  the  man's  flannel  collar,  and  the  apron-strings 
tied  pertly  above  the  very  wide,  slightly  worn  cor 
duroy  breeches  and  the  big  boots.  Sheila  was  always 
thinking  of  a  certain  famous  Puss  of  fairy-tale  mem 
ory,  and  biting  her  tongue  to  keep  it  from  the  epithet. 
After  Hilliard  gave  her  the  black  horse  and  she  began 
to  explore  the  mountain  game  trails,  her  life  seemed 
as  full  of  pleasantness  as  it  could  hold.  And  yet  .  .  . 
with  just  that  gift  of  Hilliard's,  the  overshadowing  of 
her  joy  began.  No,  really  before  that,  with  his  first 
visit. 

That  was  in  late  September  when  the  nights  were 
frosty  and  Miss  Blake  had  begun  to  cut  and  stack 
her  wood  for  winter,  and  to  use  it  for  a  crackling 
hearth-fire  after  supper.  They  were  sitting  before 
such  a  fire  when  Hilliard  came. 

Miss  Blake  sat  man-fashion  on  the  middle  of  her 
spine,  her  legs  crossed,  a  magazine  in  her  hands,  and 
on  her  blunt  nose  a  pair  of  large,  black-rimmed  spec- 


NEIGHBOR  NEIGHBOR  203 

tacles.  Her  feet  and  hands  and  her  cropped  head, 
though  big  for  a  woman's,  looked  absurdly  small  in 
comparison  to  the  breadth  of  her  hips  and  shoulders. 
She  was  reading  the  "Popular  Science  Monthly." 
This  and  the  "Geographic"  and  "Current  Events" 
were  regularly  taken  by  her  and  most  thoroughly  di 
gested.  She  read  with  keen  intelligence;  her  com 
ments  were  as  shrewd  as  a  knife-edge.  The  chair  she 
sat  in  was  made  from  elk-horns  and  looked  like  the 
throne  of  some  Norse  chieftain.  Behind  her  on  the 
wall  hung  the  stuffed  head  of  a  huge  walrus,  his 
tusks  gleaming,  the  gift  of  that  exploring  brother  who 
seemed  to  be  her  only  living  relative.  There  were 
other  tokens  of  his  wanderings,  a  polar-bear  skin, 
an  ivory  Eskimo  spear.  As  a  more  homelike  trophy 
Miss  Blake  had  hung  an  elk  head  which  she  herself 
had  laid  low,  a  very  creditable  shot,  though  out  of 
season.  She  had  been  short  of  meat.  In  the  corner  was 
a  pianola  topped  by  piles  of  record-boxes.  At  her  feet 
lay  Berg,  the  dog,  snoring  faintly  and  as  cozy  as  a 
kitten. 

The  firelight  made  Miss  Blake's  face  and  hair 
ruddier  than  usual;  her  eyes,  when  she  raised  them 
for  a  glance  at  Sheila,  looked  as  though  they  were 
full  of  red  sparks  which  might  at  any  instant  break 
into  flame.  Sheila  was  wearing  one  of  her  flimsy  little 
black  frocks,  recovered  from  the  wrinkles  of  its 
journey,  and  she  had  decorated  her  square-cut  neck 
with  some  yellow  flowers.  On  these  Miss  Blake's 


204  THE  STARS 

eyes  rested  every  now  and  then  with  a  sardonic 
gleam. 

Outside  Hidden  Creek  told  its  interminable  chat 
tering  tale,  centuries  long,  the  little  skinny  horse 
cropped  getting  his  difficult  meal  with  his  few  re 
maining  teeth.  They  could  hear  the  dogs  move  with  a 
faint  rattle  of  chains.  Sometimes  there  would  be  a 
distant  rushing  sound,  a  snow-slide  thousands  of  feet 
above  their  heads  on  the  mountain.  Above  these 
familiar  sounds  there  came,  at  about  eight  o'clock 
that  evening,  the  rattle  of  horse's  hoofs  through  the 
little  stream  and  at  the  instant  broke  out  the  hideous 
clamor  of  the  dogs,  a  noise  that  never  failed  to  whiten 
Sheila's  cheeks. 

Miss  Blake  sat  up  straight  and  snatched  off 
her  spectacles.  She  looked  at  Sheila  with  a  hard 
look. 

"Have  you  been  sending  out  invitations,  Sheila?" 
she  asked. 

"No,  of  course  not,"  Sheila  had  flushed.  She  could 
guess  whose  horse's  hoofs  were  trotting  across  the 
little  clearing. 

A  man's  voice  spoke  to  the  dogs  commandingly. 
Miss  Blake's  eyebrows  came  down  over  her  eyes.  A 
man's  step  struck  the  porch.  A  man's  knock  rapped 
sharply  at  the  door. 

"Come  in!"  said  Miss  Blake.  She  spoke  it  like  a 
sentry's  challenge. 

The  door  opened  and  there  stood  Cosme  Hilliard, 


NEIGHBOR  NEIGHBOR  205 

hat  in  hand,  his  smiling  Latin  mouth  showing  the 
big  white  Saxon  teeth. 

Sheila  had  not  before  quite  realized  his  good  looks. 
Now,  all  his  lithe,  long  gracefulness  was  painted  for 
her  against  a  square  of  purple  night.  The  clean  white 
silk  shirt  fitted  his  broad  shoulders,  the  wide  rider's 
belt  clung  to  his  supple  waist,  the  leather  chaps  were 
shaped  to  his  Greek  hips  and  thighs.  No  civilized 
man's  costume  could  so  have  revealed  and  enhanced 
his  beautiful  strength.  And  above  the  long  body  his 
face  glowed  with  its  vivid  coloring,  the  liquid  golden 
eyes  that  moved  easily  under  their  lids,  the  polished 
black  hair  sleekly  brushed,  the  red-brown  cheeks,  the 
bright  lips,  flexible  and  curved,  of  his  Spanish  mother. 

"Who  in  God's  name  are  you?"  demanded  Miss 
Blake  in  her  deepest  voice. 

"This  is  Mr.  Billiard,"  Sheila  came  forward.  "He 
is  the  man  that  brought  me  over  The  Hill,  Miss 
Blake  —  after  I'd  lost  my  horse,  you  know."  There 
was  some  urgency  in  Sheila's  tone,  a  sort  of  prod  to 
courtesy.  Miss  Blake  settled  back  on  her  spine  and 
recrossed  her  legs. 

"Well,  come  in,"  she  said,  "and  shut  the  door.  No 
use  frosting  us  all,  is  there?"  She  resumed  her  spec 
tacles  and  her  reading  of  the  "Popular  Science 
Monthly." 

Hilliard,  still  smiling,  bowed  to  her,  took  Sheila's 
hand  for  an  instant,  then  moved  easily  across  the 
room  and  settled  on  his  heels  at  one  corner  of  the 


206  THE  STARS 

hearth.  He  had  been  riding,  it  would  seem,  in  the  thin 
silk  shirt  and  had  found  the  night  air  crisp.  He 
rolled  a  cigarette  with  the  hands  that  had  first  drawn 
Sheila's  notice  as  they  held  his  glass  on  the  bar;  gen 
tleman's  hands,  clever,  sensitive,  carefully  kept.  From 
his  occupation,  he  looked  up  at  Miss  Blake  auda 
ciously. 

"You'd  better  make  friends  with  me,  ma'am,"  he 
said,  "because  we're  going  to  be  neighbors." 

"How's  that?" 

"I'm  taking  up  my  homestead  right  down  here 
below  you  on  Hidden  Creek  a  ways.  About  six  miles 
below  your  ford." 

Miss  Blake's  face  filled  with  dark  blood.  She  said 
nothing,  put  up  her  magazine. 

Sheila,  however,  exclaimed  delightedly,  "Taken 
up  a  homestead?" 

"Yes,  ma'ain."  He  turned  his  floating,  glowing 
look  to  her  and  there  it  stayed  almost  without  devi 
ation  during  the  rest  of  his  visit.  "I've  built  me  a 
log  house  —  a  dandy.  I  had  a  man  up  from  Rusty  to 
help  me.  I've  bought  me  a  cow.  I'm  getting  my 
furnishings  ready.  That's  what  I've  been  doing  these 
two  months." 

"And  never  rode  up  to  call  on  us?"  Sheila  re 
proached  him. 

"No,  ma'am.  I'll  tell  you  the  reason  for  that.  I 
was  n't  sure  of  myself."  She  opened  rather  puzzled 
and  astonished  eyes  at  this,  but  for  an  instant  his 


FOR  AN  INSTANT  HIS  LOOK  WENT  BEYOND  HER  AND 
REMEMBERED  TROUBLING  THINGS 


NEIGHBOR  NEIGHBOR  207 

look  went  beyond  her  and  remembered  troubling 
things.  "You  see,  Miss  Arundel,  I'm  not  used  to 
settling  down.  That's  something  that  I've  had  no 
practice  in.  I'm  impatient.  I  get  tired  quickly.  Damn 
quickly.  I  change  my  mind.  It's  the  worst  thing  in 
me  —  a  sort  of  devil-horse  always  thirsty  for  new 
things.  It's  touch  and  go  with  him.  He  runs  with  me. 
You  see,  I've  always  given  him  his  head."  His  look 
had  come  back  to  her  face  and  dwelt  there  speaking 
for  him  a  language  headier  than  that  of  his  tongue. 
"I  thought  I'd  tie  the  dern  fool  down  to  some  good 
tough  work  and  test  him  out.  Well,  ma'am,  he  has  n't 
quit  on  me  this  time.  I  think  he  won't.  I've  got  a 
ball  and  chain  round  about  that  cloven  foot."  He  drew 
at  his  cigarette,  half -veiling  in  smoke  the  ardor  of  his 
look.  "I'd  like  to  show  you  my  house,  Miss  Arundel. 
It's  fine.  I  worked  with  a  builder  one  season  when  I 
was  a  lad.  I've  got  it  peeled  inside.  The  logs  shine 
and  I've  got  a  fireplace  twice  the  size  of  this  in  my 
living-room"  — he  made  graceful  gestures  with  the 
hand  that  held  the  cigarette.  "Yes,  ma'am,  a  living- 
room,  and  a  kitchen,  and,"  with  a  whimsical  smile, 
"a  butler's  pantry.  And,  oh,  a  great  big  bedroom  that 
gets  the  morning  sun."  He  paused  an  instant  and 
flushed  from  chin  to  brow,  an  Anglo-Saxon  flush  it 
was,  but  the  bold  Latin  eyes  did  not  fall.  "I've  made 
some  furnishings  already.  And  I've  sent  out  an  order 
for  kitchen  stuff." 

Here  Miss  Blake  changed  the  crossing  of  her  legs. 


208  THE  STARS 

Sheila  was  angry  with  herself  because  she  was 
consumed  with  the  contagion  of  his  blush.  She  wished 
that  he  would  not  look  as  if  he  had  seen  the  blush 
and  was  pleased  by  it.  She  wished  that  his  clean 
young  strength  and  beauty  and  the  ardor  of  his  eyes 
did  not  speak  quite  so  eloquently. 

"I  bought  a  little  black  horse  about  so  high "  -  he 
held  his  hand  an  absurd  distance  from  the  floor  and 
laughed-  "just  the  size  for  a  little  girl  and  —  do 
you  know  who  I'm  going  to  give  him  to?" 

Here  Miss  Blake  got  up,  strode  to  the  pianola, 
adjusted  it,  and  sat  down,  broad  and  solid  and  un 
abashed  by  absence  of  feminine  draperies,  upon  the 
stool.  She  played  a  comic  song. 

"I  don't  like  your  family  — 
in  some  such  dreadful  way  it  expressed  itself  — 

"  They  do  not  look  good  to  me. 
I  don't  think  your  Uncle  John 
Ever  had  a  collar  on  .  .  ." 

She  played  it  very  loud. 

Hilliard  stood  up  and  came  close  to  Sheila. 

"She's  mad  as  a  March  hare,"  he  whispered,  "and 
she  does  n't  like  me  a  little  bit.  Come  out  while  I 
catch  up  Dusty,  won't  you,  please?  It's  moonlight. 
I'll  be  going."  He  repeated  this  very  loud  for  Miss 
Blake's  benefit  with  no  apparent  effect  upon  her 
enjoyment  of  the  song.  She  was  rocking  to  its 
rhythm. 

Hilliard  was  overwhelmed  suddenly  by  the  appear- 


NEIGHBOR  NEIGHBOR  209 

ance  of  her.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  mouth  and  bolted. 
Sheila,  following,  found  him  around  the  corner  of  the 
house  rocking  and  gasping  with  mirth.  He  looked  at 
her  through  tears. 

"Puss-in-Boots,"  he  gasped,  and  Sheila  ran  to  the 
edge  of  the  clearing  to  be  safe  in  a  mighty  self-in 
dulgence. 

There  they  crouched  like  two  children  till  their 
laughter  spent  itself.  Hilliard  was  serious  first. 

"You're  a  bad,  ungrateful  girl,"  he  said  weakly, 
"to  laugh  at  a  sweet  old  lady  like  that." 

"Oh,  I  am! "  Sheila  took  it  almost  seriously.  "She 's 
been  wonderful  to  me." 

"I  bet  she  works  you,"  he  said  jealously. 

"Oh,  no.  Not  a  bit  too  hard.  I  love  it." 

"Well,"  he  admitted,  "you  do  look  pretty  fine, 
that's  a  fact.  Better  than  you  did  at  Hudson's.  What 
did  you  quit  for?" 

Sheila  was  sober  enough  now.  The  moonlight  let 
some  of  its  silver,  uncaught  by  the  twinkling  aspen 
leaves,  splash  down  on  her  face.  It  seemed  to  flicker 
and  quiver  like  the  leaves.  She  shook  her  head. 

He  looked  a  trifle  sullen.  "Oh,  you  won't  tell  me  .  .  . 
Funny  idea,  you  being  a  barmaid.  Hudson's  notion, 
wasn't  it?" 

Sheila  lifted  her  clear  eyes.  "I  thought  asking 
questions  was  n't  good  manners  in  the  West." 

"Damn!"  he  said.  "Don't  you  make  me  angry! 
I've  got  a  right  to  ask  you  questions." 


210  THE  STARS 

She  put  her  hand  up  against  the  smooth  white 
trunk  of  the  tree  near  which  she  stood.  She  seemed 
to  grow  a  little  taller. 

"Oh,  have  you?  I  don't  think  I  quite  understand 
how  you  got  any  such  right.  And  you  like  to  be  ques 
tioned  yourself?" 

She  had  him  there,  had  him  rather  cruelly,  though 
he  was  not  aware  of  the  weapon  of  her  suspicion.  She 
felt  a  little  ashamed  when  she  saw  him  wince.  He 
slapped  his  gloves  against  his  leather  chaps,  looking 
at  her  with  hot,  sulky  eyes. 

"Oh,  well  ...  I  beg  your  pardon  .  .  .  Listen  —  " 
He  flung  his  ill-humor  aside  and  was  sweet  and  cool 
again  like  the  night.  "Are  you  going  to  take  the  little 
horse?" 

"I  don't  know." 

His  face  shadowed  and  fell  so  expressively,  so 
utterly,  that  she  melted. 

"Oh,"  he  stammered,  half -turning  from  her,  "I 
was  sure.  I  brought  him  up." 

This  completed  the  melting  process.  "Of  course 
I'll  take  him!"  she  cried.  "Where  is  he?" 

She  inspected  the  beautiful  little  animal  by  the 
moonlight.  She  even  let  Hilliard  mount  her  on  the 
shining  glossy  back  and  rode  slowly  about  clinging 
to  his  mane,  ecstatic  over  the  rippling  movement 
under  her. 

"He's  like  a  rocking-chair,"  said  Cosme.  "You 
can  ride  him  all  day  and  not  feel  it."  He  looked  about 


NEIGHBOR  NEIGHBOR  211 

the  silver  meadow.  "Good  feed  here,  isn't  there?  I 
bet  he'll  stay.  If  not,  I'll  get  him  for  you." 

Sheila  slipped  down.  They  left  the  horse  to  graze. 

"Yes,  it's  first-rate  feed.  Do  you  think  Miss  Blake 
will  let  me  keep  him?" 

His  answer  was  entirely  lost  by  a  sudden  outbreak 
from  the  dogs. 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Cosme,  making  himself  heard, 
"what  a  breed!  Is  n't  that  awful!  Why  does  she  keep 
the  brutes?  Is  n't  she  scared  they'll  eat  her?  " 

Sheila  shook  her  head.  Presently  the  tumult 
quieted  down.  "They're  afraid  of  her,"  she  said. 
"She  has  a  dreadful  whip.  She  likes  to  bully  them. 
I  think  she's  rather  cruel.  But  she  does  love  Berg; 
she  says  he's  the  only  real  dog  in  the  pack." 

"Was  Berg  the  one  on  the  bearskin  inside?" 

"Yes." 

"He's  sure  a  beauty.  But  I  don't  like  him.  He  has 
wolf  eyes.  See  here  —  you're  shivering.  I've  kept  you 
out  here  in  the  cold.  I'll  go.  Good-night.  Thank  you 
for  keeping  the  horse.  Will  you  come  down  to  see  my 
house?  I  built  it  "  — he  drawled  the  words  —  "for 
you"  -and  added  after  a  tingling  moment  —  "to 
see,  ma'am." 

This  experiment  in  words  sent  Sheila  to  the  house, 
her  hand  crushed  and  aching  with  his  good-bye  grasp, 
her  heart  jumping  with  a  queer  fright. 

Miss  Blake  stood  astraddle  on  the  hearth,  her 
hands  behind  her  back. 


212  THE  STARS 

"You  better  go  to  bed,  Sheila,"  she  said;  "it's 
eleven  o'clock  and  to-morrow's  wash-day." 

Her  voice  was  pleasant  enough,  but  its  bluffness 
had  a  new  edge.  Sheila  found  it  easy  to  obey.  She 
climbed  up  the  ladder  to  the  little  gabled  loft  which 
was  her  bedroom.  Halfway  up  she  paused  to  assert 
a  belated  independence  of  spirit.  "Good-night,"  she 
said,  "how  do  you  like  our  neighbor?" 

Miss  Blake  stared  up.  Her  lips  were  set  tight.  She 
made  no  answer.  After  an  instant  she  sauntered 
across  the  room  and  out  of  the  door.  The  whip  with 
which  she  beat  the  dogs  swung  in  her  hand.  A  moment 
later  a  fearful  howling  and  yelping  showed  that  some 
culprit  had  been  chosen  for  condign  punishment. 

Sheila  set  down  her  candle,  sat  on  the  edge  of  her 
cot,  and  covered  her  ears  with  her  hands.  When  it 
was  over  she  crept  into  bed.  She  felt,  though  she 
chided  herself  for  the  absurdity,  like  a  naughty  child 
who  has  been  forcibly  reminded  of  the  consequences 
of  rebellion. 


CHAPTER  VI 
A  HISTORY  AND  A  LETTER 

THE  next  morning,  it  seemed  Miss  Blake's  humor  had 
completely  changed.  It  showed  something  like  an 
apologetic  softness.  She  patted  Sheila's  shoulder 
when  she  passed  the  girl  at  work.  When  Hilliard 
next  appeared,  a  morning  visit  this  time,  he  was 
bidden  to  share  their  dinner;  he  was  even  smiled 
upon. 

"She's  not  such  a  bad  old  girl,  is  she?"  he  admitted 
when  Sheila  had  been  given  a  half-holiday  and  was 
riding  on  the  black  horse  beside  Hilliard  on  his  Dusty 
across  one  of  the  mountain  meadows. 

"7  think  she's  a  dear,"  said  Sheila,  pink  with 
gratitude;  then,  shadowing,  "If  only  she  wouldn't 
beat  the  dogs  and  would  give  up  trapping." 
"Why  in  thunder  should  n't  she  trap?" 
"I  loathe  trapping.  Do  you  remember  how  you 
felt  in  the  pen?  It's  bad  enough  to  shoot  down  splen 
did  wild  things  for  food,  but,  to  trap  them !  —  small 
furry  things   or  even   big  furry  things   like  bears, 
why,  it's  cruel!  It's  hideously  cruel!  When  a  woman 
does  it  —  " 

"Come,  now,  don't  call  her  a  woman!" 
"Yes,  she  is.  Think  of  the  aprons!  And  she  is  so 
tidy." 


214  THE  STARS 

"That's  not  just  a  woman's  virtue." 

"Maybe  not.  I'm  not  sure.  But  I've  a  feeling  that 
it  was  Eve  who  first  discovered  dust." 

"Very  bad  job  if  she  did.  Think  of  all  the  bother 
we've  been  going  through  ever  since." 

"There!"  Sheila  triumphed.  "To  you  it's  just 
bother.  You're  a  man.  To  me  it's  a  form  of  sport  .  .  . 
I  wonder  what  Miss  Blake's  story  is." 

"You  mean  —  ?"  He  turned  in  his  saddle  to  stare 
wonderingly  at  her.  "You  don't  know?" 

"No."  Sheila  blushed  confusedly.  "I  — I  don't 
know  anything  about  her  - 

"Good  Lord!"  He  whistled  softly.  "Sometimes 
those  ventures  turn  out  all  right."  He  looked  dubious. 
"I'm  glad  I'm  here!" 

Sheila's  smile  slipped  sweetly  across  her  mouth  and 
eyes.  "So  am  I.  But,"  she  added  after  a  thoughtful 
moment, "  I  don't  know  much  about  your  story  either, 
do  I?" 

"I  might  say  something , about  asking  questions," 
began  Cosme  with  grimness,  but  changed  his  tone 
quickly  with  a  light,  apologetic  touch  on  her  arm, 
"but  —  but  I  won't.  I  ran  away  from  school  when 
I  was  fourteen  and  I've  been  knocking  around  the 
West  ever  since." 

"What  school?"  asked  Sheila. 

He  did  not  answer  for  several  minutes.  They  had 
come  to  the  end  of  the  meadow  and  were  mounting  a 
slope  on  a  narrow  trail  where  the  ponies  seemed  to 


215 

nose  their  way  among  the  trees.  Now  and  then  Sheila 
had  to  put  out  her  hand  to  push  her  knee  away  from 
a  threatening  trunk.  Below  were  the  vivid  paint 
brush  flowers  and  the  blue  mountain  lupine  and  all 
about  the  nymph-white  aspens  with  leaves  turning 
to  restless  gold  against  the  sky.  The  horses  moved 
quietly  with  a  slight  creaking  of  saddles.  There  was  a 
feeling  of  stealth,  of  mystery  —  that  tiptoe  breathless 
expectation  of  Pan  pipes  ...  At  last  Cosme  turned 
in  his  saddle,  rested  his  hand  on  the  cantle,  and 
looked  at  Sheila  from  a  bent  face  with  troubled  eyes. 

"It  was  an  Eastern  school,"  he  said.  "No  doubt 
you've  heard  of  it.  It  was  Groton." 

The  name  here  in  these  Wyoming  woods  brought 
a  picture  as  foreign  as  the  artificiality  of  a  drawing- 
room. 

"Groton?  You  ran  away?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

Sheila's  suspicions  were  returning  forcibly.  "I'll 
have  to  ask  questions,  Mr.  Hilliard,  because  it  seems 
so  strange  —  what  you  are  now,  and  your  running 
away  and  never  having  been  brought  back  to  the 
East  by  —  by  whoever  it  was  that  sent  you  to 
Groton." 

"I  want  you  to  ask  questions,"  he  said  rather  wist 
fully.  "You  have  the  right." 

This  forced  her  into  something  of  a  dilemma.  She 
ignored  it  and  waited,  looking  away  from  him.  He 
would  not  leave  her  this  loophole,  however. 


216  THE  STARS 

"Why  don't  you  look  at  me?"  he  demanded 
crossly. 

She  did,  and  smiled  again. 

"You  have  the  prettiest  smile  I  ever  saw!"  he 
cried;  then  went  on  quickly,  "I  ran  away  because  of 
something  that  happened.  I'll  tell  you.  My  mother" 
-  he  flushed  and  his  eyes  fell  -  "came  up  to  see  me 
at  school  one  day.  My  mother  was  very  beautiful  .  .  . 
I  was  mad  about  her."  Curiously  enough,  every  trace 
of  the  Western  cowboy  had  gone  out  of  his  voice  and 
manner,  which  were  an  echo  of  the  voice  and  manner 
of  the  Groton  schoolboy  whose  experience  he  told. 
"I  was  proud  of  her  —  you  know  how  a  kid  is.  I 
kind  of  paraded  her  round  and  showed  her  off  to  the 
other  fellows.  No  other  fellow  had  such  a  beautiful 
mother.  Then,  as  we  were  saying  good-bye,  a  crowd 
of  the  boys  all  round,  I  did  something  —  trod  on  her 
foot  or  something,  I  don't  quite  know  what  —  and 
she  lifted  up  her  hand  and  slapped  me  across  the 
face."  He  was  white  at  the  shocking  memory.  "Right 
there  before  them  all,  when  I  —  I  was  adoring  her. 
She  had  the  temper  of  a  devil,  a  sudden  Spanish 
temper  —  the  kind  I  have,  too  —  and  she  never 
made  the  slightest  effort  to  hold  it  down.  She  hit  me 
and  she  laughed  as  though  it  was  funny  and  she  got 
into  her  carriage.  I  cut  off  to  my  room.  I  wanted  to 
kill  myself.  I  could  n't  face  any  one.  I  wanted  never 
to  see  her  again.  I  guess  I  was  a  queer  sort  of  kid  .  .  . 
I  don't  know  .  .  ."  He  drew  a  big  breath,  dropped 


A  HISTORY  AND  A  LETTER          217 

back  to  the  present  and  his  vivid  color  returned. 
"That's  why  I  ran  away  from  school,  Miss  Arundel." 
"And  they  never  brought  you  back?" 
He  laughed.  "They  never  found  me.  I  had  quite  a 
lot  of  money  and  I  lost  myself  pretty  cleverly  ...  a 
boy  of  fourteen  can,  you  know.  It's  a  very  common 
history.  Well,  I  suppose  they  did  n't  break  their 
necks  over  me  either,  after  the  first  panic.  They  were 
busy  people  —  my  parents  —  remarkably  busy  go 
ing  to  the  devil  .  .  .  And  they  were  eternally  hard- 
up.  You  see,  my  grandfather  had  the  money  —  still 
has  it  —  and  he 's  remarkably  tight.  I  wrote  to  them 
after  six  years,  when  I  was  twenty.  They  wrote  back; 
at  least  their  lawyer  did.  They  tried,  not  very  sin 
cerely,  though,  I  think,  to  coax  me  East  again  .  .  . 
told  me  they  'd  double  my  allowance  if  I  did  - 
they've  sent  me  a  pittance-  '  He  shuddered  sud 
denly,  a  violent,  primitive  shiver.  "I'm  glad  I  did  n't 
go,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  long  stillness.  That  dreadful  climax  to 
the  special  "business"  of  the  Hilliards  was  relived  in 
both  their  memories.  But  it  was  something  of  which 
neither  could  speak.  Sheila  wondered  if  the  beautiful 
mother  was  that  instant  wearing  the  hideous  prison 
dress.  She  wished  that  she  had  read  the  result  of  the 
trial.  She  would  n't  for  the  world  question  this  pale 
and  silent  young  man.  The  rest  of  their  ride  was 
quiet  and  rather  mournful.  They  rode  back  at  sunset 
and  Hilliard  bade  her  a  troubled  good-bye. 


218  THE  STARS 

She  wanted  to  say  something  comforting,  reas 
suring.  She  watched  him  helplessly  from  where  she 
stood  on  the  porch  as  he  walked  across  the  clearing 
to  his  horse.  Suddenly  he  slapped  the  pocket  of  his 
chaps  and  turned  back.  "Thunder!"  he  cried,  "I'd 
forgotten  the  mail.  A  fellow  left  it  at  the  ford.  A 
paper  for  Miss  Blake  and  a  letter  for  you." 

Sheila  held  out  her  hand.  "A  letter  for  me?"  She 
took  it.  It  was  a  strange  hand,  small  and  rather  un 
steady.  The  envelope  was  fat,  the  postmark  Millings. 
Her  flush  of  surprise  ebbed.  She  knew  whose  letter 
it  was  —  Sylvester  Hudson's.  He  had  found  her  out. 

She  did  not  even  notice  Cosme's  departure.  She 
went  up  to  her  loft,  sat  down  on  her  cot  and  read. 

MY  DEAR  Miss  SHEILA  : 

I  don't  rightly  know  how  to  express  myself  in  this  letter 
because  I  know  what  your  feelings  toward  Pap  must  be 
like,  and  they  are  fierce.  But  I  have  got  to  try  to  write  you 
a  letter  just  the  same,  for  there  are  some  things  that  need 
explaining.  At  first,  when  my  hotel  and  my  Aura  were 
burned  down  [here  the  writing  was  especially  shakyl 
and  I  found  that  you  and  Dickie  had  both  vamoosed,  I 
thought  that  you  had  paid  me  out  and  gone  off'  together. 
You  can't  blame  me  for  that  thought,  Miss  Sheila,  for  I 
had  found  him  in  your  room  at  that  time  of  night  or  morn 
ing  and  I  could  n't  help  but  see  that  he  was  aiming  to  kiss 
you  and  you  were  waiting  for  his  kiss.  So  I  was  angry  and 
I  had  been  drinking  and  I  kissed  you  myself,  taking  advan 
tage  of  you  in  a  way  that  no  gentleman  would  do.  But  I 
thought  you  were  different  from  the  Sheila  I  had  brought 
to  be  my  barmaid. 

Well,  ma'am,  fo/  a  while  after  the  fire,  I  was  pretty  near 


A  HISTORY  AND  A  LETTER          219 

crazy.  I  was  about  loco.  Then  I  was  sick.  When  I  got  well 
again,  a  fellow  who  come  over  from  Hidden  Creek  told  me 
you  had  gone  over  to  be  at  a  ranch  there  and  that  you  had 
come  in  alone.  That  sort  of  got  me  to  thinking  about  you 
more  and  more  and  studying  you  out,  and  I  begun  to  see 
that  I  had  made  a  bad  mistake.  Whatsoever  reason  brought 
that  damn  fool  Dickie  to  your  room  that  morning,  it  wTas  n't 
your  doings,  and  the  way  you  was  waiting  for  his  kiss  was 
more  a  mother's  way.  I  have  had  some  hard  moments  with 
myself,  Miss  Sheila,  and  I  have  come  to  this  that  I  have  got 
to  write  and  tell  you  how  I  feel.  And  ask  your  forgiveness. 
You  see  you  were  something  in  my  life,  different  from  any 
thing  that  had  ever  been  there.  I  don't  rightly  know  —  I 
likely  never  will  knowr  —  what  you  meant  in  my  life.  I 
handled  you  in  my  heart  like  a  flower.  Before  God,  I  had 
a  religion  for  you.  And  that  was  just  why,  when  I  thought 
you  was  bad,  that  it  drove  me  crazy.  I  wonder  if  you  will 
understand  this.  You  are  awful  young  and  awful  ignorant. 
And  I  have  hurt  your  pride.  You  are  terrible  proud  for 
your  years,  Miss  Sheila.  I  ache  all  over  when  I  think  that  I 
hurt  your  pretty  mouth.  I  hope  it  is  smiling  now.  I  am  mov 
ing  out  of  Millings,  —  Me  and  Momma  and  Babe.  But 
Girlie  is  agoing  to  marry  Jim.  He  run  right  back  to  her  like 
a  little  lost  lamb  the  second  you  was  gone.  Likely,  he'll 
never  touch  liquor  again.  I  have  n't  heard  from  Dickie.  I 
guess  he 's  gone  wThere  the  saloons  are  bigger  and  where  you 
can  get  oysters  with  your  drinks.  He  always  was  a  damn 
fool.  I  would  dearly  like  to  go  over  to  Hidden  Creek  and 
see  you,  but  I  feel  like  I'd  better  not.  It  would  hurt  me  if  I 
got  a  turn-down  from  you  like  it  will  hurt  me  if  you  don't 
answer  this  letter,  which  is  a  mighty  poor  attempt  to  tell 
you  my  bad  reasons  for  behaving  like  I  did.  I  am  not  sorry 
I  thrashed  Dickie.  He  had  ought  to  be  thrashed  good  and 
plenty.  And  he  has  sure  paid  me  off  by  burning  down  my 
Aura.  That  was  a  saloon  in  a  million,  Miss  Sheila,  and  the 
picture  of  you  standing  there  back  of  my  bar,  looking  so 
dainty  and  sweet  and  fine  in  your  black  dress  and  your 


220  THE  STARS 

frills  —  well,  ma'am,  I  '11  sure  try  to  be  thinking  of  that 
when  I  cash  in. 

Well,  Miss  Sheila,  I  wish  you  good  fortune  in  whatever 
you  do,  and  I  hope  that  if  you  ever  need  a  friend  you  will 
overlook  my  bad  break  and  remember  the  artist  that  tried 
to  put  you  in  his  big  work  and  —  failed. 

This  extraordinary  document  was  signed  —  "Syl 
vester."  Sheila  was  left  bewildered  with  strange  tears 
in  her  throat. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SANCTUARY 

THERE  came  to  the  restaurant  where  Dickie  worked, 
a  certain  sallow  and  irritable  man,  no  longer  in  his 
early  youth.  He  came  daily  for  one  of  his  three  meals: 
it  might  be  lunch  or  dinner  or  even  breakfast,  Dickie 
was  always  in  haste  to  serve  him.  For  some  reason, 
the  man's  clever  and  nervous  personality  intrigued 
his  interest.  And  this,  although  his  customer  never 
threw  him  a  glance,  scowled  at  a  newspaper,  barked 
out  an  order,  gulped  his  food,  stuck  a  fair-sized  tip 
under  the  edge  of  his  plate,  and  jerked  himself  away. 

On  a  certain  sluggish  noon  hour  in  August,  Dickie, 
as  far  as  the  kitchen  door  with  a  tray  balanced  on  his 
palm,  realized  that  he  had  forgotten  this  man's  order. 
He  hesitated  to  go  back.  "Like  as  not,"  reasoned 
Dickie,  "he  did  n't  rightly  know  what  the  order  was. 
He  never  does  look  at  his  food.  I  '11  fetch  him  a  Span 
ish  omelette  and  a  salad  and  a  glass  of  iced  tea.  It's 
a  whole  lot  better  order  than  he'd  have  thought  of 
himself." 

Nevertheless,  it  was  with  some  trepidation  that  he 
set  the  omelette  down  before  that  lined  and  averted 
countenance.  Its  owner  was  screwed  into  his  chair  as 
usual,  eyes,  with  a  sharp  cleft  between  their  brows, 
bent  on  his  folded  newspaper,  and  he  put  his  right 
hand  blindly  on  the  fork.  But  as  it  pricked  the  con- 


THE  STARS 

tents  of  the  plate  a  savory  fragrance  rose  and  the 
reader  looked. 

"Here,  you  damn  fool  —  that's  not  my  order,"  he 
snapped  out. 

Dickie  tasted  a  homely  memory  -  "Dickie  damn 
fool."  He  stood  silent  a  moment  looking  down  with 
one  of  his  quaint,  impersonal  looks. 

"Well,  sir,"  then  he  said  slowly,  "it  ain't  your 
order,  but  you  look  a  whole  lot  more  like  a  feller  that 
would  order  Spanish  omelette  than  like  a  feller  that 
would  order  Hamburger  steak." 

For  the  first  time  the  man  turned  about,  flung  his  arm 
over  his  chair-back,  and  looked  up  at  Dickie.  In  fact, 
he  stared.  His  thin  lips,  enclosed  in  an  ill-tempered 
parenthesis  of  double  lines,  twisted  themselves  slightly. 

"I'llbederned!"hesaid.  "But,  look  here,  my  man, 
I  did  n't  order  Hamburger  steak;  I  ordered  chicken." 

Dickie  deliberately  smoothed  down  the  cowlick  on 
his  head.  He  wore  his  look  of  a  seven-year-old  with 
which  he  was  wont  to  face  the  extremity  of  Sylvester's 
exasperation. 

"I  reckon  I  clean  forgot  your  order,  sir,"  he  said. 
"I  figured  out  that  you  would  n't  be  caring  what  was 
on  your  plate.  This  heat,"  he  added,  "sure  puts  a 
blinder  on  a  feller's  memory." 

The  man  laughed  shortly.  "It's  all  right,"  he  said. 
"This '11  go  down." 

He  ate  in  silence.  Then  he  glanced  up  again.  "What 
are  you  waiting  for,  anyway?" 


SANCTUARY  223 

Dickie  flushed  faintly.  "I  was  sort  of  wishful  to 
see  how  it  would  go  down." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  kind  of  waiting.  I  mean  — 
why  are  you  a  waiter  in  this  —  hash-hole?" 

Dickie  meditated.  "There  ain't  no  answer  to  that," 
he  said.  "I  don't  know  why  —  "  He  added  —  "Why 
anything.  It's  a  sort  of  extry  word  in  the  dictionary 
-  don't  mean  much  any  way  you  look  at  it." 

He  gathered  up  the  dishes.  The  man  watched  him, 
tilting  back  a  little  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  twinkling 
under  brows  drawn  together.  A  moment  afterwards 
he  left  the  restaurant. 

It  was  a  few  nights  later  when  Dickie  saw  him 
again  —  or  rather  when  Dickie  was  again  seen  by 
him.  This  time  Dickie  was  not  in  the  restaurant.  He 
was  at  a  table  in  a  small  Free  Library  near  Greenwich 
Avenue,  and  he  was  copying  painstakingly  with  one 
hand  from  a  fat  volume  which  he  held  down  with  the 
other.  The  strong,  heavily-shaded  light  made  a  circle 
of  brilliance  about  him;  his  fair  hair  shone  silvery 
bright,  his  face  had  a  sort  of  seraphic  pallor.  The 
orderer  of  chicken,  striding  away  from  the  desk  with 
a  hastily  obtained  book  of  reference,  stopped  short 
and  stared  at  him;  then  came  close  and  touched  the 
thin,  shiny  shoulder  of  the  blue  serge  coat. 

"This  the  way  you  take  your  pleasure?"  he  asked 
abruptly. 

Dickie  looked  up  slowly,  and  his  consciousness 
seemed  to  travel  even  more  slowly  back  from  the  fairy 


224  THE  STARS 

doings  of  a  midsummer  night.  Under  the  observant 
eyes  bent  upon  it,  his  face  changed  extraordinarily 
from  the  face  of  untroubled,  almost  immortal  child 
hood  to  the  face  of  struggling  and  reserved  manhood. 

"Hullo,"  he  said  with  a  smile  of  recognition. 
"Well  —  yes  —  not  always." 

"What  are  you  reading?  "  The  man  slipped  into  the 
chair  beside  Dickie,  put  on  his  glasses,  and  looked 
at  the  fat  book.  "Poetry?  Hmp!  What  are  you  copy 
ing  it  for?  —  letter  to  your  girl?" 

Dickie  had  all  the  Westerner's  prejudice  against 
questions,  but  he  felt  drawn  to  this  patron  of  the 
"hash-hole,"  so,  though  he  drawled  his  answer 
slightly,  it  was  an  honest  answer. 

"It  ain't  my  book,"  he  said.  "That's  why  I'm 
copying  it." 

"Why  in  thunder  don't  you  take  it  out,  you  young 
idiot?" 

Dickie  colored.  "Well,  sir,  I  don't  rightly  under 
stand  the  workings  of  this  place.  I  come  by  it  on  the 
way  home  and  I  kep'  a-seein'  folks  goin'  in  with 
books  and  comin'  out  with  books.  I  figured  it  was  a 
Hnd  of  exchange  proposition.  I've  only  got  one  book 
—  and  that  ain't  rightly  mine  —  "  the  man  looking 
at  him  wondered  why  his  face  flamed  —  "so,  when 
I  came  in,  I  just  watched  and  I  figured  you  could 
read  here  if  you  had  the  notion  to  take  down  a  book 
and  fetch  it  over  to  the  table  and  copy  from  it  and 
return  it.  So  I've  been  doin'  that." 


SANCTUARY  225 

"Why  did  n't  you  go  to  the  desk,  youngster,  and 
ask  questions?" 

"Where  I  come  from"  -Dickie  was  drawling 
again  — "folks  don't  deal  so  much  in  questions  as 
they  do  here." 

"Where  you  came  from!  You  came  from  Mars! 
Come  along  to  the  desk  and  I'll  fix  you  up  with  a 
card  and  you  can  take  an  armful  of  poetry  home 
with  you." 

Dickie  went  to  the  desk  and  signed  his  name. 
The  stranger  signed  his  —  Augustus  Lorrimer.  The 
librarian  stamped  a  bit  of  cardboard  and  stuck  it  into 
the  fat  volume.  She  handed  it  to  Dickie  wearily. 

"Thank  you,  ma'am,"  he  said  with  such  respectful 
fervor  that  she  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled. 

"Now,  where 's  your  diggings,"  asked  Lorrimer, 
who  had  taken  no  hints  about  asking  questions, 
"east  or  west?"  He  was  a  newspaper  reporter. 

"Would  you  be  carin'  to  walk  home  with  me?" 
asked  Dickie.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  dignity  in 
his  tone,  more  in  his  carriage. 

"Yes.  I'd  be  caring  to!  Lead  on,  Martian!"  And 
Lorrimer  felt,  after  he  said  that,  that  he  was  a  vul 
garian —  a  long-forgotten  sensation.  "In  Mars,"  he 
commented  to  himself,  "this  young  man  was  some 
kind  of  a  prince." 

"WTiat  do  you  look  over  your  shoulder  that  way 
for,  Dick?"  he  asked  aloud,  a  few  blocks  on  their 
way.  "Scared  the  police  will  take  away  your  book?" 


226  THE  STARS 

Dickie  blinked  at  him  with  a  startled  air.  "Did  I? 
I  reckon  a  feller  gets  into  queer  ways  when  he's 
alone  a  whole  lot.  I  get  kind  of  feelin'  like  somebody 
was  following  me  in  this  town  —  so  many  folks  goin' 
to  and  fro  does  it  to  me  most  likely." 

"Yes,  a  fellow  does  get  into  queer  ways  when  he's 
alone  a  whole  lot,"  said  Lorrimer  slowly.  His  mind 
went  back  a  dozen  years  to  his  own  first  winter  in 
New  York.  He  looked  with  keenness  at  Dickie's  face. 
It  was  a  curiously  charming  face,  he  thought,  but  it 
was  tight-knit  with  a  harried,  struggling  sort  of  look, 
and  this  in  spite  of  its  quaint  detachment. 

"Know  any  one  in  this  city?" 

"No,  sir,  not  rightly.  I've  made  acquaintance  with 
some  of  the  waiters.  They've  asked  me  to  join  a  club. 
But  I  have  n't  got  the  cash." 

"What  pay  do  you  draw?" 

Dickie  named  a  sum. 

"Not  much,  eh?  But  you've  got  your  tips." 

"Yes,  sir.  I  pay  my  board  with  my  pay  and  live  on 
the  tips." 

"Must  be  uncertain  kind  of  living!  Where  do  you 
live,  anyway?  What?  Here?" 

They  had  crossed  Washington  Square  and  were  en 
tering  a  tall  studio  building  to  the  south  and  east. 
Dickie  climbed  lightly  up  the  stairs.  Lorrimer  fol 
lowed  with  a  feeling  of  bewilderment.  On  the  top 
landing,  dimly  lighted,  Dickie  unlocked  a  door  and 
stood  aside. 


SANCTUARY 

"Just  step  in  and  look  up,"  he  said,  "afore  I  light 
the  light.  You'll  see  something." 

Lorrimer  obeyed.  A  swarm  of  golden  bees  glim 
mered  before  his  eyes. 

"Stars,"  said  Dickie.  "Down  below  you  would  n't 
hardly  know  you  had  'em,  would  you?" 

Lorrimer  did  not  answer.  A  moment  later  an 
asthmatic  gas-jet  caught  its  breath  and  he  saw  a  bare 
studio  room  almost  vacant  of  furniture.  There  was  a 
bed  and  a  screen  and  a  few  chairs,  one  window  facing 
an  alley  wall.  The  stars  had  vanished. 

"Pretty  palatial  quarters  for  a  fellow  on  your  job," 
Lorrimer  remarked.  "How  did  you  happen  to  get 
here?" 

"Some  —  people  I  knowed  of  once  lived  here." 
Dickie's  voice  had  taken  on  a  certain  remoteness,  and 
even  Lorrimer  knew  that  here  questions  stopped.  He 
accepted  a  chair,  declined  "the  makings,"  proffered 
a  cigarette.  During  these  amenities  his  eyes  flew 
about  the  room. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  ejaculated,  "is  all  that  stuff 
your  copying?" 

There  was  a  pile  of  loose  and  scattered  manuscript 
upon  the  table  under  the  gas-jet. 

"Yes,  sir,"  Dickie  smiled.  "I  was  plumb  foolish  to 
go  to  all  that  labor." 

Lorrimer  drew  near  to  the  table  and  coolly  looked 
over  the  papers.  Dickie  watched  him  with  rather  a 
startled  air  and  a  flush  that  might  have  seemed  one 


THE  STARS 

of  resentment  if  his  eyes  had  not  worn  their  im 
personal,  observing  look. 

"All  poetry,"  muttered  Lorrimer.  "But  some  of  it 
only  a  line  —  or  a  word."  He  read  aloud,  —  "  '  Close 
to  the  sun  in  lonely  lands  -  '  what 's  that  from, 
anyway?" 

"A  poem  about  an  eagle  by  a  man  named  Alfred 
Tennyson.  Ain't  it  the  way  a  feller  feels,  though,  up 
on  the  top  of  a  rocky  peak?" 

"Never  been  on  the  top  of  a  rocky  peak  —  kind  of 
a  sky-scraper  sensation,  is  n't  it?  What's  all  this  — 
'An'  I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara,  after  my 
fashion'?" 

Dickie's  face  again  flamed  in  spite  of  himself.  "It's 
a  love  poem.  The  feller  could  n't  forget.  He  could  n't 
keep  himself  from  loving  that-away  because  he  loved 
so  much  the  other  way  —  well,  sir,  you  better  read 
it  for  yourself.  It's  a  mighty  real  sort  of  a  poem  —  if 
you  were  that  sort  of  a  feller,  I  mean." 

"And  this  is  'The  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol.'  And 
here's  a  sonnet,  'It  was  not  like  your  great  and 
gracious  ways '  -  -  ?  Coventry  Patmore.  Well,  young 
man,  you've  a  catholic  taste." 

"I  don't  rightly  belong  to  any  church,"  said  Dickie 
gravely.  "My  mother  is  a  Methodist." 

Lorrimer  moved  abruptly  away  and  moved  ab 
ruptly  back. 

"Where  were  you  educated,  Dick?" 

"I  was  raised  in  Millings"  —  Dickie  named  the 


SANCTUARY  229 

Western  State  —  "I  didn't  get  only  to  grammar 
school.  My  father  needed  me  to  work  in  his  hotel." 

"Too  bad!"  sighed  Lorrimer.  "Well,  I'll  bid  you 
good-night.  And  many  thanks.  You've  got  a  fine 
place  here."  Again  he  sighed.  "I  dare  say  —  one  of 
these  days  - 

He  was  absent  and  irritable  again.  Dickie  accom 
panied  him  down  the  three  long,  narrow  flights  and 
climbed  back  to  his  loneliness.  He  was,  however, 
very  much  excited  by  his  adventure,  excited  and 
disturbed.  He  felt  restless.  He  walked  about  and 
whistled  to  himself. 

Until  now  he  had  had  but  one  companion  —  the 
thought  of  Sheila.  It  was  extraordinary  how  imme 
diate  she  was.  During  the  first  dreadful  weeks  of  his 
drudgery  in  the  stifling  confusions  of  the  restaurant, 
when  even  the  memory  of  Sylvester's  tongue-lash 
ings  faded  under  the  acute  reality  of  the  head  waiter's 
sarcasms,  that  love  of  his  for  Sheila  had  fled  away 
and  left  him  dull  and  leaden  and  empty  of  his  soul. 
And  his  tiny  third-story  bedroom  had  seemed  like  a 
coffin  when  he  laid  himself  down  in  it  and  tried  to 
remember  her.  It  had  come  to  him  like  a  mountain 
wind,  overwhelmingly,  irresistibly,  the  desire  to  live 
where  she  lived:  the  first  wish  he  had  had  since  he 
had  learned  that  she  was  not  to  be  found  by  him. 
And  the  miracle  had  accomplished  itself.  Mrs.  Halli- 
gan  had  been  instructed  to  get  a  lodger  at  almost  any 
price  for  the  long-vacant  studio  room.  She  lowered 


230  THE  STARS 

the  rent  to  the  exact  limit  of  Dickie's  wages.  She  had 
never  bargained  with  so  bright-eyed  a  hungry-look 
ing  applicant  for  lodgings.  And  that  night  he  lay 
awake  under  Sheila's  stars.  From  then  on  he  lived 
always  in  her  presence.  And  here  in  the  room  that 
had  known  her  he  kept  himself  fastidious  and  clean. 
He  shut  out  the  wolf-pack  of  his  shrewd  desires.  The 
room  was  sanctuary.  It  was  to  rescue  Sheila  rather 
than  himself  that  Dickie  fled  up  to  the  stars.  So 
deeply,  so  intimately  had  she  become  a  part  of  him 
that  he  seemed  to  carry  her  soul  in  his  hands.  So  had 
the  young  dreamer  wedded  his  dream.  He  lived  with 
Sheila  as  truly,  as  loyally,  as  though  he  knew  that 
she  would  welcome  him  with  one  of  those  downward 
rushes  or  give  him  Godspeed  on  sultry,  feverish 
dawns  with  a  cool  kiss.  Dickie  lay  sometimes  across 
his  bed  and  drew  her  cheek  in  trembling  fancy  close 
to  his  until  the  anguish  wet  his  pillow  with  mute 
tears. 

Now  to  this  dual  loneliness  Lorrimer  had  climbed, 
and  Dickie  felt,  rather  gratefully,  that  life  had 
reached  up  to  the  aching  unrealities  of  his  existence. 
His  tight  and  painful  life  had  opened  like  the  first 
fold  of  a  fan.  He  built  upon  the  promise  of  a  friend 
ship  with  this  questioning,  impertinent,  mocking, 
keenly  sympathetic  visitor. 

But  a  fortnight  passed  without  Lorrimer's  appear 
ing  at  the  restaurant  and,  when  at  last  he  did  come, 
Dickie,  flying  to  his  chair,  was  greeted  by  a  cold,  un- 


SANCTUARY  231 

smiling  word,  and  a  businesslike  quotation  from  the 
menu.  He  felt  as  though  he  had  been  struck.  His  face 
burned.  In  the  West,  a  fellow  could  n't  do  that  and 
get  away  with  it!  He  tightened  an  impotent,  thin 
fist.  He  filled  the  order  and  kept  his  distance,  and, 
absurdly  enough,  gave  Lorrimer's  tip  to  another 
waiter  and  went  without  his  own  dinner.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  life  a  sense  of  social  inferiority,  of 
humiliation  concerning  the  nature  of  his  work,  came 
to  him.  He  felt  the  pang  of  servitude,  a  pang  un 
known  to  the  inhabitants  of  frontier  towns.  When 
Sheila  washed  dishes  for  Mrs.  Hudson  she  was  "the 
young  lady  from  Noo  York  who  helps  round  at 
Hudson's  house."  Dickie  fought  this  shame  sturdily, 
but  it  seemed  to  cling,  to  have  a  sticky  pervasive 
ness.  Try  as  he  might  he  could  n't  brush  it  off  his 
mind.  Nevertheless,  it  was  on  the  very  heels  of  this 
embittering  experience  that  life  plucked  him  up  from 
his  slough.  One  of  the  leveling  public  catastrophes 
came  to  Dickie's  aid  —  not  that  he  knew  he  was  a 
dumb  prayer  for  aid.  He  knew  only  that  every  day 
was  harder  to  face  than  the  last,  that  every  night  the 
stars  up  there  through  Sheila's  skylight  seemed  to 
glimmer  more  dully  with  less  inspiration  on  his 
fagged  spirit. 

The  sluggish  monotony  of  the  restaurant's  exist 
ence  was  stirred  that  September  night  by  a  big  neigh 
boring  fire.  Waiters  and  guests  tumbled  out  to  the 
call  of  fire-engines  and  running  feet.  Dickie  found 


THE  STARS 

himself  beside  Lorrimer,  who  caught  him  by  the 
elbow. 

"Keep  by  me,  kid,"  he  said,  and  there  was  some 
thing  in  his  tone  that  softened  injury.  "If  you  want 
a  good  look-in,  I  can  get  through  the  ropes." 

He  showed  his  card  to  a  policeman,  pulled  Dickie 
after  him,  and  they  found  themselves  in  an  inner 
circle  of  the  inferno.  Before  them  a  tall,  hideous 
warehouse  broke  forth  into  a  horrible  beauty.  It  was 
as  though  a  tortured  soul  had  burst  bars.  It  roared 
and  glowed  and  sent  up  petals  of  smoky  rose  and 
seeds  of  fire  against  the  blue-black  sky.  The  crowds 
pressed  against  the  ropes  and  turned  up  their  faces 
to  drink  in  the  terror  of  the  spectacle. 

Lorrimer  had  out  his  notebook.  "Damn  fires!" 
he  said.  "They  bore  me.  Does  all  this  look  like  any 
thing  to  you?  That  fire  and  those  people  and  their 
silly  faces  all  tilted  up  and  turned  red  and  blue  and 
purple  — 

He  was  talking  to  himself,  and  so,  really,  was 
Dickie  when  he  made  his  own  statement  in  a  queer 
tone  of  frightened  awe.  "They  look  like  a  flower  gar 
den  in  Hell,"  he  whispered. 

Lorrimer  threw  up  his  chin.  "Say  that  again,  will 
you?"  he  snapped  out.  "Go  on!  Don't  stop!  Tell  me 
everything  that  comes  into  your  damn  young  head  of 
a  wandering  Martian !  Fly  at  it !  I  '11  take  you  down." 

"You  mean,"  said  Dickie,  "tell  you  what  I  think 
this  looks  like?" 


SANCTUARY  233 

"That's  what  I  mean,  bo." 

Dickie  smiled  a  queer  sort  of  smile.  He  had  found 
a  listener  at  last.  A  moment  later  Lorrimer's  pencil 
was  in  rapid  motion.  And  the  reporter's  eyes  shot 
little  stabbing  looks  at  Dickie's  unself -conscious  face. 
When  it  was  over  he  snapped  an  elastic  round  his 
notebook,  returned  it  to  his  pocket,  and  laid  his 
hand  on  Dickie's  thin,  tense  arm. 

"Come  along  with  me,  Dick,"  said  Lorrimer. 
"You've  won.  I've  been  fighting  you  and  my  duty 
to  my  neighbor  for  a  fortnight.  Your  waiter  days  are 
over.  I've  adopted  you.  I'm  my  brother's  keeper  all 
right.  We  '11  both  go  hungry  now  and  then  probably, 
but  what 's  the  odds !  I  need  you.  I  have  n't  been  able 
to  hand  in  a  story  like  that  for  years.  I  'm  a  burnt-out 
candle  and  you're  the  divine  fire.  I'm  going  to  edu 
cate  the  life  out  of  you.  I'm  going  to  train  you  till 
you  wish  you'd  died  young  and  ungrammatical  in 
Millings.  I  may  not  be  much  good  myself,"  he  added 
solemnly,  "but  God  gave  me  the  sense  to  know  the 
real  thing  when  I  see  it.  I  've  been  fighting  you,  call 
ing  myself  a  fool  for  weeks.  Come  along,  young  fellow, 
don't  hang  back,  and  for  your  credit's  sake  close 
your  lips  so  you  won't  look  like  a  case  of  arrested 
development.  First  we'll  say  good-bye  to  the  hash- 
hole  and  the  white  apron  and  then  I'll  take  you  up 
to  your  sky  parlor  and  we'll  talk  things  over." 

"God!"  said  Dickie  faintly.  It  was  a  prayer  for 
some  enlightenment. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DESERTION 

HILLIARD  rode  up  along  Hidden  Creek  on  a  frosty 
October  morning.  Everywhere  now  the  aspens  were 
torches  of  gold,  the  cottonwood  trees  smoky  and 
gaunt,  the  ground  bright  with  fallen  leaves.  He  had 
the  look  of  a  man  who  has  swept  his  heart  clean  of 
devils  .  .  .  his  face  was  keen  with  his  desire.  He  sang 
as  he  rode  —  sweetly  an  old  sentimental  Spanish 
song,  something  his  mother  had  taught  him;  but  it 
was  not  of  his  mother  he  thought,  or  only,  perhaps, 
deep  down  in  his  subconsciousness,  of  that  early 
mother-worship,  age-old  and  most  mysterious,  which 
now  he  had  translated  and  transferred. 

"Sweet,  sweet  is  the  jasmine  flower  — 
Let  its  stars  guide  thee. 
Sweet  is  the  heart  of  a  rose  .  .  . 
Sweet  is  the  thought  of  thee  .  .  . 
Deep  in  my  heart  ..." 

The  dogs  were  off  coursing  the  woods  that  after 
noon,  and  the  little  clearing  lay  as  still  as  a  green  lake 
under  the  threatening  crest  of  the  mountain.  Cosme 
slipped  from  his  horse,  pulled  the  reins  over  his  head, 
and  left  him  to  graze  at  will. 

Miss  Blake  opened  the  ranch-house  door  at  his 
knock.  She  greeted  him  with  a  sardonic  smile.  "I 


DESERTION  235 

don't  know  whether  you'll  see  your  girl  or  not,"  she 
said.  "Give  her  time  to  get  over  her  tantrums." 

Cosme  turned  a  lightning  look,  upon  her.  "Tan 
trums?  Sheila?" 

"  Oh,  my  friend,  she  has  a  devil  of  her  own,  that  little 
angel-face!  Make  yourself  comfortable."  Miss  Blake 
pointed  him  to  a  chair.  "I'll  tell  her  you're  here." 

She  went  to  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  which  rose  from 
the  middle  of  the  living-room  floor,  and  called  heart 
ily,  an  indulgent  laugh  in  her  voice,  "You,  Sheila! 
Better  come  down!  Here's  your  beau." 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Hear  me,  Sheila?  Mis-ter  Cos-me  Hill-iard." 

This  time  some  brief  and  muffled  answer  was  re 
turned.  Miss  Blake  smiled  and  went  over  to  her  elk- 
horn  throne.  There  she  sat  and  sewed  —  an  incon 
gruous  occupation  it  looked. 

Cosme  was  leaning  forward,  elbows  on  knees,  his 
face  a  study  of  impatience,  anger,  and  suspicion. 

"What  made  her  mad?"  he  asked  bluntly. 

"O-oh!  She'll  get  over  it.  She'll  be  down.  Sheila 
can't  resist  a  young  man.  You'll  see." 

"What  did  you  do?"  insisted  the  stern,  crisp,  un- 
western  voice.  When  Cosme  was  angry  he  reverted 
rapidly  to  type. 

"Why,"  drawled  Miss  Blake,  "I  crept  up  when 
she  was  drying  her  hair  and  I  cut  it  off."  She  laughed 
loudly  at  his  fierce  start. 

"Cut  off  her  hair!  What  right  —  ?" 


236  THE  STARS 

"No  right  at  all,  my  friend,  but  common  sense. 
What's  the  good  of  all  that  fluffy  stuff  hanging  about 
and  taking  hours  of  her  time  to  brush  and  wash  and 
what-not.  Besides "  -  she  shot  a  look  at  him  -  "it 's 
part  of  the  cure." 

"By  the  Lord,"  said  Cosme,  "I'd  like  you  to 
explain." 

The  woman  crossed  her  legs  calmly.  She  was  still 
'ndulgently  amused. 

"Don't  lose  your  head,  young  man,"  she  advised. 
"Better  smoke." 

After  an  instant  Cosme  rolled  and  lighted  a  ciga 
rette  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  His  anger  had  set 
tled  to  a  sort  of  patient  contempt. 

"I've  put  her  into  breeches,  too,"  said  Miss  Blake. 

"What  the  devil!  What  do  you  mean?  She  has  a 
will  of  her  own,  has  n't  she?" 

"Oh,  yes.  But  you  see  I've  got  Miss  Sheila  just 
about  where  I  want  her.  She's  grateful  enough  for 
her  food  and  the  roof  over  her  head  and  for  the  chance 
I'm  giving  her." 

"Chance?"  He  laughed  shortly.  "Chance  to  do  all 
your  heavy  work?" 

"Why  not  say  honest  work?  It's  something  new  to 
her." 

There  was  a  brief,  thunderous  silence.  Cosme's 
cigarette  burned  between  his  stiff  fingers.  "What  do 
you  mean?"  he  asked,  hoarse  with  the  effort  of  his 
self-control. 


DESERTION  237 

She  looked  at  him  sharply  now.  "Are  you  Paul 
Carey  Milliard's  son  —  the  son  of  Roxana  Hilliard?" 
she  asked.  She  pointed  a  finger  at  him. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  with  thin  lips.  His  eyes  nar 
rowed.  His  face  was  all  Latin,  all  cruel. 

"Well"  -Miss  Blake  slid  her  hands  reflectively 
back  and  forth  on  the  bone  arms  of  her  chair.  She 
had  put  down  her  work.  "I  was  just  thinking,"  she 
said  slowly  and  kindly,  "that  the  son  of  your  mother 
would  be  rather  extra  careful  in  choosing  the  mother 
of  his  sons." 

"I  shall  be  very  careful,"  he  answered  between  the 
thin  lips.  "I  am  being  careful." 

She  fell  back  with  an  air  of  relief.  "Oh,"  she  said, 
as  though  illuminated.  "O-oh!  I  understand.  Then 
it's  all  right.  I  did  n't  read  your  game." 

His  face  caught  fire  at  her  apparent  misunder 
standing. 

"I  don't  read  yours,"  he  said. 

"Game?  Bless  you,  I've  no  game  to  play.  I'm  giv 
ing  Sheila  her  chance.  But  I  'm  not  going  to  give  her 
a  chance  at  the  cost  of  your  happiness.  You're  too 
good  a  lad  for  that.  I  thought  you  were  going  to  ask 
her  to  be  your  wife.  And  I  was  n't  going  to  allow  you 
to  do  it  —  blind.  I  was  going  to  advise  you  to  come 
back  three  years  from  now  and  see  her  again.  Maybe 
this  fine  clean  air  and  this  life  and  this  honest  work 
and  the  training  she  gets  from  me  will  make  her 
straight.  My  God !  Cosme  Hilliard,  have  you  set  -eyes 


238  THE  STARS 

on  Hudson?  What  kind  of  girl  travels  West  from  New 
York  at  Sylvester  Hudson's  expense  and  in  his  com 
pany  and  queens  it  in  the  suite  at  his  hotel?" 

"Miss  Blake,"  he  muttered,  "do  you  know  this?" 

The  cigarette  had  burnt  itself  out.  Cosme's  face 
was  no  longer  cruel.  It  was  dazed. 

She  laughed  shortly.  "Why,  of  course,  I  know 
Sheila.  I  know  her  whole  history  —  and  it 's  some 
history!  She's  twice  the  age  she  looks.  Do  you  think 
I'd  have  her  here  with  me  this  way  without  knowing 
the  girl?  I  tell  you,  I  want  to  give  her  a  chance.  I 
don't  care  if  you  try  to  test  her  out.  I'd  like  to  see 
if  two  months  has  done  anything  for  her.  She  was 
real  set  on  being  a  good  girl  when  she  quit  Hudson.  I 
don't  know,  but  I'm  willing  to  bet  that  she'll  turn 
you  down." 

From  far  away  up  the  mountain-side  came  the 
fierce  baying  of  the  dog  pack.  Cosme  pulled  himself 
together  and  stood  up.  His  face  had  an  ignorant, 
baffled  look,  the  look  of  an  unskilled  and  simple  mind 
caught  in  a  web. 

"I  reckon  she  —  she  is  n't  coming  down,"  he  said 
slowly,  without  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  floor.  "I 
reckon  I'll  be  going.  I  won't  wait." 

He  walked  to  the  door,  his  steps  falling  without 
spring,  and  went  out  and  so  across  the  porch  and  the 
clearing  to  his  horse. 

At  the  sound  of  the  closing  door  there  came  a 
flurry  of  movement  in  the  loft.  The  trap  was  raised. 


DESERTION  239 

Sheila  came  quickly  down  the  ladder.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  pair  of  riding-breeches  and  her  hair  was 
cropped  like  Miss  Blake's  just  below  the  ears.  The 
quaintest  rose-leaf  of  a  Rosalind  she  looked,  just  a 
wisp  of  grace,  utterly  unlike  a  boy.  All  the  soft,  slim 
litheness  with  its  quick  turns  revealed  —  a  little 
figure  of  unconscious  sweet  enchantment.  But  the 
face  was  flushed  and  tear-stained,  the  eyes  distressed. 
She  stood,  hands  on  her  belt,  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder. 

"Why  has  he  gone?  Why  did  n't  he  wait?" 

Miss  Blake  turned  a  frank,  indulgent  face.  But  it 
was  deeply  flushed.  "Oh,  shucks!"  she  said,  "I  sup 
pose  he  got  tired.  Why  did  n't  you  come  down?" 

Sheila  sent  a  look  down  her  slim  legs.  "Oh,  be 
cause  I  am  a  fool.  Miss  Blake  —  did  you  really  burn 
my  two  frocks  —  both  of  them?"  Her  eyes  coaxed 
and  filled. 

"It's  all  they're  fit  for,  my  dear.  You  can  make 
yourself  new  ones.  You  know  it's  more  sensible  and 
comfortable,  too,  to  work  and  ride  in  breeches.  I 
know  what  I'm  doing,  child.  —  I've  lived  this  way 
quite  a  number  of  years.  You  look  real  nice.  I  can't 
abide  female  floppery,  anyhow.  What's  it  a  sign 
of?  Rotten  slavery."  She  set  her  very  even  teeth  to 
gether  hard  as  she  said  this. 

But  Sheila  was  neither  looking  nor  listening.  She 
had  heard  horse's  hoofs.  Her  cheeks  flamed.  She  ran 
to  the  door.  She  stood  on  the  porch  and  called. 

"Cosme  Hilliard!  Come  back!" 


240  THE  STARS 

There  was  no  answer.  A  few  minutes  later  she 
came  in,  pale  and  puzzled. 

"He  didn't  even  wave,"  she  said.  "He  turned 
back  in  his  saddle  and  stared  at  me.  He  rode  away 
staring  at  me.  Miss  Blake  —  what  did  you  say  to 
him?  You  were  talking  a  long  time." 

"We  were  talking,"  said  Miss  Blake,  "about  dogs 
and  how  to  raise  'em.  And  then  he  up  and  said  good 
bye.  Oh,  Sheila,  it 's  all  right.  He  '11  be  back  when  he 's 
got  over  being  miffed.  Why,  he  expected  you  to  come 
tumblin'  down  the  ladder  head  over  heels  to  see  him 
—  a  handsome  fellow  like  that !  Shucks !  Have  n't 
you  ever  dealt  with  the  vanity  of  a  young  male  be 
fore?  It's  as  jumpy  as  a  rabbit.  Get  to  work." 

And,  as  though  to  justify  Miss  Blake's  prophecy, 
just  ten  days  later,  Hilliard  did  come  again.  It  was  a 
Sunday  and  Sheila  had  packed  her  lunch  and  gone  off 
on  "Nigger  Baby"  for  the  day.  The  ostensible  object 
of  her  ride  was  a  visit  to  the  source  of  Hidden  Creek. 
Really  she  was  climbing  away  from  a  hurt.  She  felt 
Hilliard's  wordless  departure  and  prolonged  absence 
keenly.  She  had  not  —  to  put  it  euphemistically  — 
many  friends.  Her  remedy  was  successful.  Impossible, 
on  such  a  ride,  to  cherish  minor  or  major  pangs.  She 
rode  into  the  smoky  dimness  of  pine-woods  where 
the  sunlight  burned  in  flecks  and  out  again  across 
the  little  open  mountain  meadows,  jeweled  with 
white  and  gold,  blue  and  coral-colored  flowers,  a 
stained-glass  window  scattered  across  the  ground. 


DESERTION  241 

From  these  glades  she  could  see  the  forest,  an  army 
of  tall  pilgrims,  very  grave,  going  up,  with  long  staves 
in  their  hands,  to  worship  at  a  high  shrine.  The  rocks 
above  were  very  grave,  too,  and  grim  and  still  against 
the  even  blue  sky.  Across  their  purplish  gray  a  water 
fall  streaked  down  struck  crystal  by  the  sun.  An 
eagle  turned  in  great,  swinging  circles.  Sheila  had  an 
exquisite  lifting  of  heart,  a  sense  of  entire  fusion, 
body  blessed  by  spirit,  spirit  blessed  by  body.  She 
felt  a  distinct  pleasure  in  the  flapping  of  her  short, 
sun-filled  hair  against  her  neck,  at  the  pony's  motion 
between  her  unhampered  legs,  at  the  moist  warmth 
of  his  neck  under  her  hand  —  and  this  physical 
pleasure  seemed  akin  to  the  ecstasy  of  prayer. 

She  came  at  last  to  a  difficult,  narrow,  canon  trail, 
where  the  pony  hopped  skillfully  over  fallen  trees, 
until,  for  very  weariness  of  his  choppy,  determined 
efforts,  she  dismounted,  tied  him  securely,  and  made 
the  rest  of  her  climb  on  foot.  Hidden  Creek  tumbled 
near  her  and  its  voice  swelled.  All  at  once,  round  the 
corner  of  a  great  wall  of  rock,  she  came  upon  the 
head.  It  gushed  out  of  the  mountain-side  in  a  tumult 
of  life,  not  in  a  single  stream,  but  in  many  frothy, 
writhing  earth-snakes  of  foam.  She  sat  for  an  hour 
and  watched  this  mysterious  birth  from  the  moun 
tain-side,  watched  till  the  pretty  confusion  of  the 
water,  with  its  half-interpreted  voices,  had  dizzied 
and  dazed  her  to  the  point  of  complete  forgetfulness 
of  self.  She  had  entered  into  a  sort  of  a  trance,  a 


242  THE  STARS 

Nirvana  .  .  .  She  shook  herself  out  of  it,  ate  her 
lunch  and  scrambled  quickly  back  to  "Nigger  Baby." 
It  was  late  afternoon  when  she  crossed  the  mountain 
glades.  Their  look  had  mysteriously  changed.  There 
was  something  almost  uncanny  now  about  their  bril 
liance  in  the  sunset  light,  and  when  she  rode  into  the 
streaked  darkness  of  the  woods,  they  were  full  of 
ghostly,  unintelligible  sounds.  To  rest  her  muscles 
she  was  riding  with  her  right  leg  thrown  over  the 
horn  as  though  on  a  side  saddle  —  a  great  mass  of 
flowers  was  tied  in  front  of  her.  She  had  opened  her 
shirt  at  the  neck  and  her  head  was  bare.  She  was 
singing  to  keep  up  her  heart.  Then,  suddenly,  she  had 
no  more  need  of  singing.  She  saw  Cosme  walking 
toward  her  up  the  trail. 

His  face  lacked  all  its  vivid  color.  It  was  rather 
haggard  and  stern.  The  devils  he  had  swept  out  of 
his  heart  a  fortnight  earlier  had,  since  then,  been 
violently  entertained.  He  stepped  out  of  the  path 
and  waited  for  her,  his  hands  on  his  hips.  But,  as  she 
rode  down,  she  saw  this  look  melt.  The  blood  crept 
up  to  his  cheeks,  the  light  to  his  eyes.  It  was  like  a 
rock  taking  the  sun.  She  had  smiled  at  him  with  all 
the  usual  exquisite  grace  and  simplicity.  When  she 
came  beside  him,  she  drew  rein,  and  at  the  same 
instant  he  put  his  hand  on  the  pony's  bridle.  He 
looked  up  at  her  dumbly,  and  for  some  reason  she, 
too,  found  it  impossible  to  speak.  She  could  see  that 
he  was  breathing  fast  through  parted  lips  and  that 


DESERTION  243 

the  lips  were  both  cruel  and  sensitive.  His  hand  slid 
back  along  "Nigger  Baby's  "  neck,  paused,  and  rested 
on  her  knee.  Then,  suddenly,  he  came  a  big  step 
closer,  threw  both  his  arms,  tightening  with  a  py 
thon's  strength,  about  her  and  hid  his  face  against 
her  knees. 

"Sheila,"  he  said  thickly.  He  looked  up  with  a  sort 
of  anguish  into  her  face.  "Sheila,  if  you  are  not  fit  to 
be  the  mother  of  my  children,  you  are  sure  fit  for  any 
man  to  love." 

Her  soft,  slim  body  hardened  against  him  even 
before  her  face.  They  stared  at  each  other  for  a 
minute. 

"Let  me  get  down,"  said  Sheila. 

He  stepped  back,  not  quite  understanding.  She 
dropped  off  the  horse,  dragging  her  flowers  with  her, 
and  faced  him.  She  did  not  feel  small  or  slender.  She 
felt  as  high  as  a  hill,  although  she  had  to  look  up  at 
him  so  far.  Her  anger  had  its  head  against  the  sky. 

"Why  do  you  talk  about  a  man's  love?"  she  asked 
him  with  a  queer  sort  of  patience.  "I  think  —  I  hope 
—  that  you  don't  know  anything  about  a  man's  love, 
oh,  the  way  men  love!"  She  thought  with  swift  pain 
of  Jim,  of  Sylvester.  "Oh,  the  way  they  love!"  And 
she  found  that,  under  her  breath,  she  was  sobbing, 
"Dickie!  Dickie!"  as  though  her  heart  had  called. 

"Will  you  take  back  your  horse,  please?"  she  said, 
choking  over  these  sobs  which  hurt  her  more  at  the 
moment  than  he  had  hurt  her.  "I'll  never  ride  on 


244  THE  STARS 

him  again.  Don't  come  back  here.  Don't  try  to  see 
me  any  more.  I  suppose  it  —  it  —  the  way  you  love 
me  —  is  because  I  was  a  barmaid,  because  you  heard 
people  speak  of  me  as  'Hudson's  Queen.'"  She  con 
quered  one  of  the  sobs.  "I  thought  that  after  you'd 
looked  into  my  face  so  hard  that  night  and  stopped 
yourself  from  —  from  —  my  lips,  that  you  had  under 
stood."  She  shook  her  head  from  side  to  side  so  vio 
lently,  so  childishly,  that  the  short  hair  lashed  across 
her  eyes.  "No  one  ever  will  understand!"  She  ran 
away  from  him  and  cried  under  her  breath,  "Dickie! 
Dickie!" 

She  ran  straight  into  the  living-room  and  stopped 
in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  Her  arms  were  full  of  the 
flowers  she  had  pulled  down  from  "Nigger  Baby's" 
neck. 

"What  did  you  want  to  bring  in  all  that  truck  — ? " 
Miss  Blake  began,  rising  from  the  pianola,  then 
stopped.  "What's  the  matter  with  you?"  she  asked. 
"Did  your  young  man  find  you?  I  sent  him  up  the 
trail."  Her  red  eyes  sparkled. 

"He  insulted  me!"  gasped  Sheila.  "He  dared  to 
insult  me!"  She  was  dramatic  with  her  helpless 
young  rage.  "He  said  I  wasn't  fit  to  —  to  be  the 
mother  of  his  children.  And"  —  she  laughed  angrily, 
handling  behind  Cosme's  back  the  weapon  that  she 
had  been  too  merciful  to  use  —  "and  his  mother  is  a 
murderess,  found  guilty  of  murder  —  and  of  worse!" 

A  sort  of  ripple  of  sound  behind  made  her  turn. 


DESERTION  245 

Cosme  had  followed  her,  was  standing  in  the  open 
door,  and  had  heard  her  speech.  The  weapon  had 
struck  home,  and  she  saw  how  it  had  poisoned  all  his 
blood. 

He  vanished  without  a  word.  Sheila  turned  back  to 
Miss  Blake  a  paler  face.  She  let  fall  all  her  flowers. 

"Now  he'll  never  come  back,"  she  said. 

She  climbed  up  the  ladder  to  her  loft. 

There  she  sat  for  an  hour,  listening  to  the  silence. 
Her  mind  busied  itself  with  trivial  memories.  She 
thought  of  Amelia  Plecks  ...  It  would  have  com 
forted  her  to  hear  that  knock  and  the  rattle  of  her 
dinner  tray.  The  little  sitting-room  at  Hudson's 
Hotel,  with  its  bit  of  tapestry  and  its  yellow  tea-set 
and  its  vases  filled  with  flowers,  seemed  to  her  mem 
ory  as  elaborate  and  artificial  as  the  boudoir  of  a 
French  princess.  Farther  than  Millings  had  seemed 
from  her  old  life  did  this  dark  little  gabled  attic  seem 
from  Millings.  What  was  to  be  the  end  of  this  strange 
wandering,  this  withdrawing  of  herself  farther  and 
farther  into  the  lonely  places!  She  longed  for  the 
noise  of  Babe's  hearty,  irrepressible  voice  with  its 
smack  of  chewing,  of  her  step  coming  up  the  stairs 
to  that  little  bedroom  under  Hudson's  gaudy  roof. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  she  was  homesick  for  Mill 
ings?  For  the  bar  with  its  lights  and  its  visitors  and 
its  big-aproned  guardian?  Her  lids  were  actually 
smarting  with  tears  at  the  recollection  of  Carthy's 
big  Irish  face  ...  He  had  been  such  a  good,  faithful 


246  THE  STARS 

watch-dog.  Were  men  always  like  that  —  either 
watch-dogs  or  wolves?  The  simile  brought  her  back 
to  Hidden  Creek.  It  grew  darker  and  darker,  a 
heavy  darkness;  the  night  had  a  new  soft  weight. 
There  began  to  be  a  sort  of  whisper  in  the  stillness  — 
not  the  motion  of  pines,  for  there  was  no  wind.  Per 
haps  it  was  more  a  sensation  than  a  sound,  of  in 
numerable  soft  numb  fingers  working  against  the 
silence  .  .  .  Sheila  got  up,  shivering,  lighted  her  can 
dle,  and  went  over  to  the  small,  four-paned  window 
under  the  eaves.  She  pressed  her  face  against  it  and 
started  back.  Things  were  flying  toward  her.  She 
opened  the  sash  and  a  whirling  scarf  of  stars  flung 
itself  into  the  room.  It  was  snowing.  The  night  was 
blind  with  snow. 


CHAPTER  IX 

WORK  AND  A  SONG 

ON  the  studio  skylight  the  misty  autumn  rain  fell 
that  night,  as  the  snow  fell  against  Sheila's  window- 
panes,  with  a  light  tapping.  Below  it  Dickie  worked. 
He  had  very  little  leisure  now  for  stars  or  dreams. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  neglected  and  mismanaged 
life  he  knew  the  pleasure  of  congenial  work;  and 
this,  although  Lorrimer  worked  him  like  a  slave.  He 
dragged  him  over  the  city  and  set  his  picture-paint 
ing  faculty  to  labor  in  dark  corners.  Dickie,  every 
sense  keen  and  clean,  was  not  allowed  to  flinch.  No, 
his  freshness  was  his  value.  And  the  power  that  was 
in  him,  driven  with  whip  and  spur,  throve  and  grew 
and  fairly  took  the  bit  in  its  teeth  and  ran  away  with 
its  trainer. 

"Look  here,  my  lad,"  Lorrimer  had  said  that 
morning,  "you  keep  on  laying  hands  on  the  English 
language  the  way  you've  been  doing  lately  and  I'll 
have  to  get  a  job  for  you  on  the  staff.  Then  my  plagi 
arism  that  has  been  paying  us  both  so  well  comes  to 
an  end.  I  won't  have  the  face  to  edit  stuff  like  this 
much  longer."  Lorrimer  did  not  realize  in  his  amaze 
ment  that  Dickie's  mind  had  always  busied  itself 
with  this  exciting  and  nerve-racking  matter  of  choos 
ing  words.  From  his  childhood,  in  the  face  of  ridicule 


248  THE  STARS 

and  outrage,  he  had  fumbled  with  the  tools  of  Lor- 
rimer's  trade.  No  wonder  that  now  knowledge  and 
practice,  and  the  sort  of  intensive  training  he  was 
under,  magically  fitted  all  the  jumbled  odds  and  ends 
into  place.  Dickie  had  stopped  looking  over  his 
shoulder.  The  pursuing  pack,  the  stealthy-footed 
beasts  of  the  city,  had  dropped  utterly  from  his  flying 
imagination.  There  was  only  one  that  remained  faith 
ful  —  that  craving  for  beauty  —  half -god,  half -beast 
Against  him  Dickie  still  pressed  his  door  shut.  Lor- 
rimer's  gift  of  work  had  not  quieted  the  leader  of 
the  pack.  But  it  had  brought  Dickie  something  that 
was  nearly  happiness.  The  very  look  of  him  had 
changed;  he  looked  driven  rather  than  harried,  keen 
rather  than  harassed,  eager  instead  of  vague,  hungry 
rather  than  wistful.  Only,  sometimes,  Dickie's  brain 
would  suddenly  turn  blank  and  blind  from  sheer  ex 
haustion.  This  happened  to  him  now.  The  printed 
lines  he  was  studying  lost  all  their  meaning.  He  put 
his  forehead  on  his  hands.  Then  he  heard  that  eerie, 
light  tapping  above  him  on  the  skylight.  But  he  was 
too  tired  to  look  up. 

It  was  on  that  very  afternoon  when  Sheila  rode 
down  the  trail  with  her  flowers  tied  before  her  on  the 
saddle,  singing  to  keep  up  her  heart.  It  was  that  very 
afternoon  when  she  had  cried  out  half-consciously 
for  "Dickie  —  Dickie  —  Dickie"  —  and  now  it  was, 
as  though  the  cry  had  traveled,  that  a  memory  of 
her  leapt  upon  his  mind;  a  memory  of  Sheila  singing. 


WORK  AND  A  SONG  249 

She  had  come  into  the  chocolate-colored  lobby  from 
one  of  her  rides  with  Jim  Greely.  She  had  "held  a  hand 
ful  of  cactus  flowers.  She  had  stopped  over  there  by 
one  of  the  windows  to  put  them  in  a  glass.  And  to 
show  Dickie,  a  prisoner  at  his  desk,  that  she  did  not 
consider  his  presence  —  it  was  during  the  period  of 
their  estrangement  —  she  had  sung  softly  as  a  girl 
sings  when  she  knows  herself  to  be  alone :  a  little  ten 
der,  sad  chanting  song,  that  seemed  made  to  fit  her 
mouth.  The  pain  her  singing  had  given  him  that  after 
noon  had  cut  a  picture  of  her  on  Dickie's  brain.  Just 
because  he  had  tried  so  hard  not  to  look  at  her.  Now 
it  jumped  out  at  him  against  his  closed,  wet  lids.  The 
very  motions  of  her  mouth  came  back,  the  positive 
dear  curve  of  her  chin,  the  throat  there  slim  against 
the  light.  Hard  work  had  driven  her  image  a  little 
from  his  mind  lately;  it  returned  now  to  revenge  his 
self -absorption  —  returned  with  a  song. 

Dickie  got  up  and  wandered  about  the  room.  He 
tried  to  hum  the  air,  but  his  throat  contracted.  He 
tried  to  whistle,  but  his  lips  turned  stiff.  He  bent  over 
his  book  —  no  use,  she  still  sang.  All  night  he  was 
tormented  by  that  chanting,  hurting  song.  He  sobbed 
with  the  hurt  of  it.  He  tossed  about  on  his  bed.  He 
could  not  but  remember  how  little  she  had  loved 
him.  All  at  once  there  came  to  him  a  mysterious  and 
beautiful  release.  It  seemed  that  the  cool  spirit,  de 
tached,  winged,  drew  him  to  itself  or  became  itself 
entirely  possessed  of  him.  He  was  taken  out  of  his 


250  THE  STARS 

pain  and  yet  he  understood  it.  And  he  began  sud 
denly,  easily,  to  put  it  into  words.  The  misery  was 
ecstasy,  the  hurt  was  inspiration,  the  song  sang 
sweetly  as  though  it  had  been  sung  to  soothe  and  not 
to  make  him  suffer. 

"Oh,  little  song  you  sang  to  me  "  — 
Ah,  yes,  at  heart  she  had  been  singing  to  him  — 

"  A  hundred,  hundred  days  ago, 
Oh,  little  song,  whose  melody 
Walks  in  my  heart  and  stumbles  so; 
I  cannot  bear  the  level  nights, 
And  all  the  days  are  over-long, 
And  all  the  hours  from  dark  to  dark 
Turn  to  a  little  song  .  .  ." 

Dickie,  not  knowing  how  he  got  there,  was  at  his 
table  again.  He  was  writing.  He  was  happy  beyond 
any  conception  he  had  ever  had  of  happiness.  That 
there  was  agony  in  his  happiness  only  intensified  it. 
The  leader  of  the  wolf-pack,  beast  with  a  god's  face, 
the  noblest  of  man's  desires,  that  passionate  and 
humble  craving  for  beauty,  had  him  by  the  throat. 

So  it  was  that  Dickie  wrote  his  first  poem. 


CHAPTER  X 

WINTER 

WINTER  snapped  at  Hidden  Creek  as  a  wolf  snaps, 
but  held  its  grip  as  a  bulldog  holds  his.  There  came 
a  few  November  days  when  all  the  air  and  sky  and 
tree-tops  were  filled  with  summer  again,  but  the  snow 
that  had  poured  itself  down  so  steadily  in  that  Oc 
tober  storm  did  not  give  way.  It  sank  a  trifle  at 
noon  and  covered  itself  at  night  with  a  glare  of  ice. 
It  was  impossible  to  go  anywhere  except  on  snow- 
shoes.  Sheila  quickly  learned  the  trick  and  plodded 
with  bent  knees,  limber  ankles,  and  wide-apart  feet 
through  the  winter  miracle  of  the  woods.  It  was  an 
other  revelation  of  pure  beauty,  but  her  heart  was 
too  sore  to  hold  the  splendor  as  it  had  held  the  gentler 
beauty  of  summer  and  autumn.  Besides,  little  by 
little  she  was  aware  of  a  vague,  encompassing  un 
easiness.  Since  the  winter  jaws  had  snapped  them  in, 
setting  its  teeth  between  them  and  all  other  life,  Miss 
Blake  had  subtly  and  gradually  changed.  It  was  as 
though  her  stature  had  increased,  her  color  deepened. 
Sometimes  to  Sheila  that  square,  strong  body  seemed 
to  fill  the  world.  She  was  more  and  more  masterful, 
quicker  with  her  orders,  charier  of  her  smiles,  shorter 
of  speech  and  temper.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  grow  redder, 


252  THE  STARS 

the  sparks  closer  to  flame,  as  though  the  intense  cold 
fanned  them. 

Once  they  harnessed  the  dogs  to  the  sled  and  rode 
down  the  country  for  the  mail.  The  trip  they  made 
together.  Sheila  sat  wrapped  in  furs  in  front  of  the 
broad  figure  of  her  companion,  who  stood  at  the  back 
of  the  sledge,  used  a  long  whip,  and  shouted  to  the 
dogs  by  name  in  her  great  musical  voice  of  which 
the  mountain  echo  made  fine  use.  They  sped  close  to 
the  frozen  whiteness  of  the  world,  streaked  down  the 
slopes,  and  were  drawn  soundlessly  through  the  col 
umned  vistas  of  the  woods.  Here,  there,  and  every 
where  were  tracks,  of  coyotes,  fox,  rabbit,  martin, 
and  the  little  pointed  patteran  of  winter  birds, 
yet  they  saw  nothing  living.  "What's  got  the  elk 
and  moose  this  season?"  muttered  Miss  Blake. 
Nothing  stirred  except  the  soft  plop  of  shaken  snow 
or  the  little  flurry  of  drifting  flakes.  These  frost- 
flakes  lay  two  inches  deep  on  the  surface  of  the 
snow,  dry  and  distinct  all  day  in  the  cold  so  that 
they  could  be  blown  apart  at  a  breath.  Miss  Blake 
was  cheerful  on  this  journey.  She  sang  songs,  she  told 
brief  stories  of  other  sled  trips.  At  the  post-office  an 
old,  lonely  man  delivered  them  some  parcels  and  a 
vast  bagful  of  magazines.  There  was  a  brief  passage 
of  arms  between  him  and  Miss  Blake.  She  accused 
him  of  withholding  a  box  of  cartridges,  and  would 
not  be  content  till  she  had  poked  about  his  office  in 
dark  corners.  She  came  out  swearing  at  the  failure  of 


WINTER  253 

her  search.  "I  needed  that  shot,"  she  said.  "My 
supply  is  short.  I  made  sure  it'd  be  here  to-day." 
There  were  no  letters  for  either  of  them,  and  Sheila 
felt  again  that  queer  shiver  of  her  loneliness.  But, 
on  the  whole,  it  was  a  wonderful  day,  and,  under 
a  world  of  most  amazing  stars,  the  small,  valiant 
ranch-house,  with  its  glowing  stove  and  its  hot  mess 
of  supper,  felt  like  home.  .  .  .  Not  long  after  that 
came  the  first  stroke  of  fate. 

The  little  old  horse  left  them  and,  though  they 
shoed  patiently  for  miles  following  his  track,  it  was 
only  to  find  his  bones  gnawed  clean  by  coyotes  or  by 
wolves.  Sheila's  tears  froze  to  her  lashes,  but  Miss 
Blake's  face  went  a  little  pale.  She  said  nothing,  and 
in  her  steps  Sheila  plodded  home  in  silence.  That 
evening  Miss  Blake  laid  hands  on  her.  .  .  .  They  had 
washed  up  their  dishes.  Sheila  was  putting  a  log  on 
the  fire.  It  rolled  out  of  her  grasp  to  the  bearskin  rug 
and  struck  Miss  Blake's  foot.  Before  Sheila  could 
even  say  her  quick  "I'm  sorry,"  the  woman  had  come 
at  her  with  a  sort  of  spring,  had  gripped  her  by  the 
shoulders,  had  shaken  her  with  ferocity,  and  let  her  go. 
Sheila  fell  back,  her  own  hands  raised  to  her  bruised 
shoulders,  her  eyes  phosphorescent  in  a  pale  face. 

"Miss  Blake,  how  dare  you  touch  me!" 

The  woman  kicked  back  the  log,  turned  a  red  face, 
and  laughed. 

"Dare!  You  little  silly!  What's  to  scare  me  of 
you?" 


254  THE  STARS 

An  awful  conviction  of  helplessness  depressed 
Sheila's  heart,  but  she  kept  her  eyes  leveled  on  Miss 
Blake's. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  will  stay  here  with  you  one 
hour,  if  you  treat  me  like  this?" 

That  brought  another  laugh.  But  Miss  Blake  was 
evidently  trying  to  make  light  of  her  outbreak. 
"Scared  you,  did  n't  I?"  she  said.  "I  guess  you  never 
got  much  training,  eh!" 

"I  am  not  a  dog,"  said  Sheila  shortly. 

"Well,  if  you  are  n't"  -Miss  Blake  returned  to 
her  chair  and  took  up  a  magazine.  She  put  the  spec 
tacles  on  her  nose  with  shaking  hands.  "You're  my 
girl,  are  n't  you?  You  can't  expect  to  get  nothing  but 
petting  from  me,  Sheila." 

If  she  had  not  been  icy  with  rage,  Sheila  might 
have  smiled  at  this.  "I  don't  know  what  you  mean, 
Miss  Blake,  by  my  being  your  girl.  I  work  for  you,  to 
be  sure.  I  know  that.  But  I  know,  too,  that  you  will 
have  to  apologize  to  me  for  this." 

Miss  Blake  swung  one  leg  across  the  other  and 
stared  above  her  glasses. 

"Apologize  to  you!" 

"Yes.  I  will  allow  nobody  to  touch  me." 

"Shucks!  Go  tell  that  to  the  marines!  You've 
never  been  touched,  have  you?  Sweet  sixteen!" 

Hudson's  kiss  again  scorched  Sheila's  mouth  and 
her  whole  body  burned.  Miss  Blake  watched  that  fire 
consume  her,  and  again  she  laughed. 


WINTER  255 

"I'm  waiting  for  you  to  apologize,"  said  Sheila 
again,  this  time  between  small  set  teeth. 

"Well,  my  girl,  wait.  That'll  cool  you  off." 

Sheila  stood  and  felt  the  violent  beating  of  her 
heart.  A  log  in  the  wall  snapped  from  the  bitter  frost. 

"Miss  Blake,"  she  said  presently,  a  pitiful  young 
quaver  in  her  voice,  "if  you  don't  beg  my  pardon 
I'll  go  to-morrow." 

Miss  Blake  flung  her  book  down  with  a  gesture  of 
impatience.  "Oh,  quit  your  nonsense,  Sheila!"  she 
said.  "What's  a  shaking!  You  know  you  can't  get  out 
of  here.  It'd  take  you  a  week  to  get  anywhere  at  all 
except  into  a  frozen  supper  for  the  coyotes.  Your 
beau 's  left  the  country  —  Madder  told  me  at  the 
post-office.  Make  the  best  of  it,  Sheila.  Lucky  if  you 
don't  get  worse  than  that  before  spring.  You'll  get 
used  to  me  in  time,  get  broken  in  and  learn  my  ways. 
I'm  not  half  bad,  but  I've  got  to  be  obeyed.  I've  got 
to  be  master.  That's  me.  What  do  you  think  I've 
come  'way  out  here  to  the  wilderness  for,  if  not  be 
cause  I  can't  stand  anything  less  than  being  master? 
Here  I  Ve  got  my  place  and  my  dogs  and  a  world  that 
don't  talk  back.  And  now  I've  got  you  for  company 
and  to  do  my  work.  You've  got  to  fall  into  line, 
Sheila,  right  in  the  ranks.  Once,  some  one  out  there 
in  the  world  "  —  she  made  a  gesture,  dropped  her  chin 
on  her  big  chest,  and  looked  out  under  her  short, 
dense,  rust-colored  eyelashes  —  "tried  to  break  me. 
I  won't  tell  you  what  he  got.  That's  where  I  quit 


256  THE  STARS 

the  ways  of  women  —  yes,  ma'am,  and  the  ways  of 
men."  She  stood  up  and  walked  over  to  the  window 
and  looked  out.  The  dogs  were  sleeping  in  their  ken 
nels,  but  a  chain  rattled.  "I've  broke  the  wolf -pack. 
You've  seen  them  wriggle  on  their  bellies  for  me, 
have  n't  you?  Well,  my  girl,  do  you  think  I  can't 
break  you?"  She  wheeled  back  and  stood  with  her 
hands  on  her  hips.  It  was  at  that  moment  that  she 
seemed  to  fill  the  world.  Her  ruddy  eyes  glowed  like 
blood.  They  were  not  quite  sane.  That  was  it.  Sheila 
went  suddenly  weak.  They  were  not  quite  sane  — 
those  red  eyes  filled  with  sparks. 

The  girl  stepped  back  and  sat  down  in  her  chair. 
She  bent  forward,  pressed  her  hands  flat  together, 
palm  to  palm  between  her  knees,  and  stared  fixedly 
down  at  them.  She  made  no  secret  of  her  desperate 
preoccupation. 

Miss  Blake's  face  softened  a  little  at  this  with 
drawal.  She  came  back  to  her  place  and  resumed  her 
spectacles. 

"I'll  tell  you  why  I'm  snappy,"  she  said  presently. 
"I'm  scared." 

This  startled  Sheila  into  a  look.  Miss  Blake  was 
moistening  her  lips.  "That  horse  —  you  know  —  the 
coyotes  got  him.  I  guess  he  went  down  and  they 
fell  upon  him.  Well,  he  was  to  feed  the  dogs  with 
until  I  could  get  my  winter  meat." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  That's  what  I  buy  'em  for.  Little  old  horses,  for  3 


WINTER  257 

4 

couple  of  bits,  and  work  'em  out  and  shoot  'em  for 
dog-feed.  Well,  Sheila,  when  they  're  fed,  they  're  dogs. 
But  when  they  're  starved  —  they  're  wolves  .  .  . 
And  I  can't  think  what's  come  to  the  elk  this  year. 
To-morrow  I'll  take  out  my  little  old  gun." 

To-morrow  and  the  next  day  and  the  next  she  took 
her  gun  and  strapped  on  her  shoes  and  went  out  for 
all  day  long  into  the  cold.  Each  time  she  came  back 
more  exhausted  and  more  fierce.  Sheila  would  have 
her  supper  ready  and  waiting  sometimes  for  hours. 

"The  dogs  have  scared  'em  off,"  said  Miss  Blake. 
"That  must  be  the  truth."  She  let  the  pack  hunt  for 
itself  at  night,  and  they  came  back  sometimes  with 
bloody  jaws.  But  the  prey  must  have  been  small,  for 
they  were  not  satisfied.  They  grew  more  and  more 
gaunt  and  wolfish.  They  would  howl  for  hours,  wail 
ing  and  yelping  in  ragged  cadence  to  the  stars.  Table- 
scraps  and  brews  of  Indian  meal  vanished  and  left 
their  bellies  almost  as  empty  as  before. 

"And,"  said  Miss  Blake,  "we  got  to  eat,  our 
selves." 

"Had  n't  we  better  go  down  to  the  post-office  or  to 
Rusty?"  Sheila  asked  nervously. 

Miss  Blake  snapped  at  her.  "Harness  that  team 
now?  As  much  as  your  life  is  worth,  Sheila!  And  we 
can't  make  it  on  foot.  We'd  drop  in  our  tracks  and 
freeze.  If  it  comes  to  the  worst  we  may  have  to  try  it, 
but  —  oh,  I'll  get  something  to-morrow." 

But  to-morrow  brought  no  better  luck.  During  the 


258  THE  STARS 

hunting  the  dogs  were  left  on  their  chains,  and  Sheila, 
through  the  lonely  hours,  would  watch  them  through 
the  window  and  could  almost  see  the  wolfishness 
grow  in  their  deep,  wild  eyes.  She  would  try  to  talk 
to  them,  pat  them,  coax  them  into  doggy-ness.  But 
day  by  day  they  responded  more  unwillingly.  All  but 
Berg:  Berg  stayed  with  her  in  the  house,  lay  on  her 
feet,  leaned  against  her  knee.  He  shared  her  meals. 
He  was  beginning  to  swing  his  heart  from  Miss  Blake 
to  her,  and  this  was  the  second  cause  for  strife. 

Since  that  one  outbreak,  Sheila  had  gone  carefully. 
She  was  dignified,  aloof,  very  still.  She  obeyed  and 
slaved  as  she  had  never  done  in  the  summer  days. 
The  dread  of  physical  violence  hung  on  her  brain  like 
a  cloud.  She  encouraged  Berg's  affection,  and  won 
dered,  if  it  came  to  a  struggle,  whether  he  would  side 
with  her.  She  was  given  the  opportunity  to  put  this 
matter  to  the  test. 

Miss  Blake  was  very  late  that  night.  It  was  mid 
night,  a  stark  midnight  of  stars  and  biting  cold,  when 
Berg  stood  up  from  his  sleep  and  barked  his  low,  short 
bark  of  welcome.  Outside  the  other  dogs  broke  into 
their  clamor,  drowning  all  other  sound,  and  in  the 
midst  of  it  the  door  flew  rudely  open.  Miss  Blake 
stood  and  clung  to  the  side  of  the  door.  Her  face  was 
bluish-white.  She  put  out  her  hand  toward  Sheila, 
clutching  the  air.  Sheila  ran  over  to  her. 

"You 're  hurt?" 

"Twisted  my  blamed  ankle.  God!"  She  hobbled 


WINTER  259 

over,  a  heavy  arm  round  Sheila,  to  her  chair  and  sat 
there  while  the  girl  gave  her  some  brandy,  removed 
the  snowshoes,  and  cut  away  the  boot  from  a  swol 
len  and  discolored  leg. 

"That's  the  end  of  my  hunting,"  grunted  the  pa 
tient,  who  bore  the  agony  of  rubbing  and  bathing 
stoically.  "And,  I  reckon,  I  could  n't  have  stood 
much  more."  She  clenched  her  hand  in  Berg's  mane. 
"God!  Those  dogs!  I'll  have  to  shoot  them  —  next." 
Sheila  looked  up  to  her  with  a  sort  of  horrified  hope. 
There  was  then  a  way  out  from  that  fear. 

"I'd  rather  die,  I  think,"  said  the  woman  hoarsely. 
"I  love  those  dogs."  Sheila  looked  up  into  a  tender 
and  quivering  face  —  the  face  of  a  mother.  "They 
mean  something  to  me  —  those  brutes.  I  guess  I  kind 
of  centered  my  heart  on  'em  —  out  here  alone.  I 
raised  'em  up,  from  puppies,  all  but  Berg  and  the 
mother.  They  were  the  cutest  little  fellows.  I  remem 
ber  when  Wreck  got  porcupine  quills  in  his  nose  and 
came  to  me  and  lay  on  his  back  and  whined  to  me.  It 
was  as  if  he  said,  'Help  me,  momma.'  Sure  it  was. 
And  he  pretty  near  died.  Oh,  damn!  If  I  have  to 
shoot  'em  I  might  just  as  well  shoot  myself  and  be 
done  with  it  ...  Thanks,  Sheila.  I'll  eat  my  supper 
here  and  then  you  can  help  me  to  bed.  When  my 
ankle 's  all  well,  we  can  have  a  try  for  the  post-office, 
perhaps."  She  leaned  back  and  drew  Berg  roughly  up 
against  her.  She  caressed  him.  He  made  little  soft, 
throaty  sounds  of  tenderness. 


260  THE  STARS 

Sheila  came  back  with  a  tray  and,  as  she  came, 
Berg  pulled  himself  away  from  his  mistress  and  went 
wagging  over  to  greet  her. 

"Come  here!"  snapped  Miss  Blake.  Berg  hesi 
tated,  cuddled  close  to  Sheila,  and  kept  step  beside 
her. 

Miss  Blake's  eyes  went  red.  " Come  here!"  she  said 
again.  Berg  did  not  cringe  or  hasten.  He  reached 
Miss  Blake's  chair  at  the  same  instant  as  Sheila,  not 
a  moment  earlier. 

Miss  Blake  pulled  herself  up.  The  tray  went  shat 
tering  to  the  floor.  She  hobbled  over  to  the  fire,  white 
with  the  anguish,  took  down  the  whip  from  its  nail. 
At  that  Berg  cringed  and  wrhined.  The  woman  fell 
upon  him  with  her  terrible  lash.  She  held  herself  with 
one  hand  on  the  mantel-shelf,  while  with  the  other 
she  scored  the  howling  victim.  His  fur  came  off  his 
back  under  the  dreadful,  knife-edge  blows. 

"Oh,  stop!"  cried  Sheila.  "Stop!  You're  killing 
him!"  She  ran  over  and  caught  Miss  Blake's  arm. 

"Damn  you!"  said  the  woman  fiercely.  She  stood 
breathing  fast.  Sweat  of  pain  and  rage  and  exertion 
stood  out  on  her  face.  "Do  you  want  that  whip?" 

She  half -turned,  lifting  her  lash,  and  at  that,  with 
a  snarl,  Berg  crouched  himself  and  bared  his  teeth. 

Miss  Blake  started  and  stared  at  him.  Suddenly 
she  gave  in.  Pain  and  anger  twisted  her  spirit. 

"You'd  turn  my  Berg  against  me!"  she  choked, 
and  fell  heavily  down  on  the  rug  in  a  dead  faint. 


WINTER  261 

When  she  came  to  she  was  grim  and  silent.  She  got 
herself  with  scant  help  to  bed,  her  big  bed  in  the  cor 
ner  of  the  living-room,  and  for  a  week  she  was  kept 
there  with  fever  and  much  pain.  Berg  lay  beside  her 
or  followed  Sheila  about  her  work,  and  the  woman 
watched  them  both  with  ruddy  eyes. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  PACK 

IN  January  a  wind  blew  steadily  from  the  east  and 
snow  came  as  if  to  bury  them  alive.  The  cabin  turned 
to  a  cave,  a  small  square  of  warmth  under  a  mountain 
of  impenetrable  white;  one  door  and  one  window  only, 
opening  to  a  space  of  sun.  Against  the  others  the 
blank  white  lids  of  winter  pressed.  Sheila  shoveled 
this  space  out  sometimes  twice  a  day.  The  dog  ken 
nels  were  moved  into  it,  and  stood  against  the  side 
of  a  snow-bank  eight  feet  high,  up  which,  when  they 
were  unchained,  the  gaunt,  wolfish  animals  leapt  in 
a  loosely  formed  pack,  the  great  mother,  Brenda,  at 
their  head,  and  padded  off  into  the  silent  woods  in 
their  hungry  search  for  food. 

But,  one  day,  they  refused  to  go.  Miss  Blake,  her 
whip  in  her  hand,  limped  out.  The  snow  had  stopped. 
The  day  was  still  and  bright  again  above  the  snowy 
firs,  the  mountain  scraped  against  the  blue  sky  like  a 
cliff  of  broken  ice.  The  dogs  had  crept  out  of  their 
houses  and  were  squatted  or  huddled  in  the  sun.  As 
she  came  out  they  rose  and  strained  at  their  tethers. 
One  of  them  whined.  Brenda,  the  mother,  bared  her 
teeth.  G  ie  by  one,  as  they  were  freed,  they  slunk 
close  to  Miss  Blake,  looking  up  into  her  face.  They 
crowded  close  at  her  heels  as  she  went  back  to  the 


THE  PACK  263 

house.  She  had  to  push  the  door  to  in  their  very  jaws 
and  they  pressed  against  it,  their  heads  hung  low, 
sniffing  the  odor  of  food.  Presently  a  long-drawn, 
hideous  howling  rose  from  them.  Time  and  again 
Miss  Blake  drove  them  away  with  lash  and  voice. 
Time  and  again  they  came  back.  They  scratched  at 
the  threshold,  whimpered,  and  whined. 

Sheila  and  Miss  Blake  gave  them  what  food  they 
would  have  eaten  themselves  that  day.  It  served  only 
to  excite  their  restlessness,  to  hold  them  there  at  the 
crack  of  the  door,  snuffling  and  slobbering.  The  outer 
circle  slept,  the  inner  watched.  Then  they  would  shift, 
like  sentries.  They  had  a  horrible  sort  of  system. 
Most  of  that  dreadful  afternoon  Miss  Blake  paced  the 
floor,  trying  to  strengthen  her  ankle  for  the  trip  to  the 
post-office.  At  sunset,  when  the  small  snow-banked 
room  was  nearly  dark,  she  stopped,  threw  up  her 
head,  and  looked  at  Sheila.  The  girl  was  sitting  on  the 
lowest  step  of  the  ladder  washing  some  dried  apples. 
Her  face  had  thinned  to  a  silvery  wedge  between 
the  thick  square  masses  of  her  hair.  There  was  a 
haunted  look  in  her  clear  eyes.  The  soft  mouth  had 
tightened. 

"How  in  God's  name,"  said  Miss  Blake,  "shall  I 
get  'em  on  their  chains  again?" 

Sheila  stopped  her  work,  and  her  lips  fell  helplessly 
apart.  She  looked  up  at  the  older  woman  and  shook 
her  head. 

Miss  Blake's  fear  snapped  into  a  sort  of  frenzy. 


264  THE  STARS 

She  gritted  her  teeth  and  stamped.  "You  simpleton!" 
she  said.  "You  never  have  a  notion  in  your  head." 

Sheila  stood  up  quickly.  Something  told  her  that 
she  had  better  be  on  her  feet.  She  kept  very  still. 
"You  will  know  better  than  I  could  what  to  do  about 
the  dogs,"  she  said  quietly.  "They'll  go  back  on  their 
chains  for  you,  I  should  think.  They're  afraid  of 
you." 

"Are  n't  you?"  Miss  Blake  asked  roughly. 

"No.  Of  course  not." 

"You  little  liar!  You're  scared  half  out  of  your 
wits.  You  're  scared  of  the  whole  thing  —  scared  of 
the  snow,  scared  of  the  cold,  scared  of  the  dogs, 
and  scared  sick  of  me.  Come,  now.  Tell  me  the 
truth." 

It  was  almost  her  old  bluff,  bullying  tone,  but 
back  of  it  was  a  disorder  of  stretched  nerves.  Sheila 
weighed  her  words  and  tried  to  weigh  her  thoughts. 

"I  don't  think  I  am  afraid,  Miss  Blake.  Why 
should  I  be  afraid  of  the  dogs,  if  you  are  n't?  And  why 
should  I  be  afraid  of  you?  You  have  been  good  to 
me.  You  are  a  good  woman." 

At  this  Miss  Blake  threw  back  her  head  and 
laughed.  She  was  terribly  like  one  of  the  dogs  howling. 
There  was  something  wild  and  wolfish  in  her  broad 
neck  and  in  the  sound  she  made.  And  she  snapped 
back  into  silence  with  wolfish  suddenness. 

"If  you're  not  scared,  then,"  she  scoffed,  "go  and 
chain  up  the  dogs  yourself." 


THE  PACK  265 

For  an  instant  Sheila  quite  calmly  balanced  the 
danger  out  of  doors  against  the  danger  within. 

"I  think,"  she  said  —  and  managed  one  of  her 
drifting  smiles  —  "I  think  I  am  a  great  deal  more 
afraid  of  the  dogs  than  I  am  of  you,  Miss  Blake." 

The  woman  studied  her  for  a  minute  in  silence, 
then  she  walked  over  to  her  elk-horn  throne  and  sat 
down  on  it. 

She  leaned  back  in  a  royal  way  and  spread  her 
dark  broad  hands  across  the  arms. 

"Well,"  she  said  coolly,  "did  you  hear  what  I 
said?  Go  out  and  chain  up  the  dogs!" 

Sheila  held  herself  like  a  slim  little  cavalier.  "If  I 
go  out,"  she  said  coolly,  "I  will  not  take  a  whip.  I'll 
take  a  gun." 

"And  shoot  my  dogs?" 

"Miss  Blake,  what  else  is  left  for  us  to  do?  We 
can't  let  them  claw  down  the  door  and  tear  us  into 
bits,  can  we?" 

"You'd  shoot  my  dogs?" 

"You  said  yourself  that  we  might  have  to  shoot 
them." 

Miss  Blake  gave  her  a  stealthy  and  cunning  look. 
"Take  my  gun,  then"  —  her  voice  rose  to  a  key  that 
was  both  crafty  and  triumphant  —  "and  much  good 
it  will  do  you !  There 's  shot  enough  to  kill  one  if  you 
are  a  first-rate  shot.  I  lost  what  was  left  of  my  am 
munition  the  day  I  hurt  my  ankle.  The  new  stuff  is 
down  at  the  post-ofSce  by  now,  I  guess." 


266  THE  STARS 

The  long  silence  was  filled  by  the  shifting  of  the 
dog-watch  outside  the  door. 

"We  must  chain  them  up  at  any  cost,"  said  Sheila. 
Her  lips  were  dry  and  felt  cold  to  her  tongue. 

"Go  out  and  do  it,  then."  The  mistress  of  the  house 
leaned  back  and  crossed  her  ankles. 

"Miss  Blake,  be  reasonable.  You  have  a  great  deal 
of  control  over  the  dogs  and  I  have  none.  I  am  afraid 
of  them  and  they  will  know  it.  Animals  always  know 
when  you're  afraid  .  .  ."  Again  she  managed  a  smile. 
"I  shall  begin  to  think  you  are  a  coward,"  she  said. 

At  that  Miss  Blake  stood  up  from  her  chair.  Her 
face  was  red  with  a  violent  rush  of  blood  and  the 
sparks  in  her  eyes  seemed  to  have  broken  into  flame. 

"Very  good,  Miss,"  she  said  brutally.  "I'll  go  out 
and  chain  'em  up  and  then  I  '11  come  back  and  thrash 
you  to  a  frazzle.  Then  you'll  know  how  to  obey  my 
orders  next  time." 

She  caught  up  her  whip,  swung  it  in  her  hand,  and 
strode  to  the  door. 

"And  mind  you,  Sheila,  you  won't  be  able  to  hide 
yourself  from  me.  Nor  make  a  getaway.  I'll  lock  this 
door  outside  and  winter 's  locked  the  other.  You  wait. 
You'll  see  what  you'll  get  for  calling  me  a  coward. 
Your  friend  Berg 's  gone  off  on  a  long  hunt  ...  he 's 
left  his  friends  outside  there  and  he's  left  you  .  .  . 
Understand?" 

She  shouted  roughly  to  the  dogs,  snapped  her  whip, 
threw  open  the  door,  and  stepped  out  boldly.  She 


THE  PACK  267 

shut  the  door  behind  her  and  shot  a  bolt.  It  creaked 
as  though  it  had  grown  rusty  with  disuse. 

In  the  stillness  —  for,  except  for  a  quick  shuffling 
of  paws,  there  was  no  sound  at  first  —  Sheila  chose 
her  weapon  of  defense.  She  took  down  from  its  place 
the  Eskimo  ivory  spear,  and,  holding  it  short  in  her 
hand,  she  put  herself  behind  the  great  elk-horn  chair. 
Her  Celtic  blood  was  pounding  gloriously  now.  She 
was  not  afraid;  though  if  there  had  been  time  to 
notice  it,  she  would  have  confessed  to  an  abysmal 
sense  of  horror  and  despair.  And  again  she  wondered 
at  her  own  loneliness  and  youth  and  the  astounding 
danger  that  she  faced.  Yes,  it  was  more  astonishment 
than  any  other  emotion  that  possessed  her  conscious 
ness.  The  horror  was  below  the  threshold  practicing 
its  part. 

Then  anger,  astonishment,  horror  itself  were  sud 
denly  thrown  out  of  her.  She  was  left  like  an  empty 
vessel  waiting  to  be  filled  with  fear.  Miss  Blake  had 
cried  aloud,  "Help,  Sheila!  Help!"  This  was  followed 
by  a  dreadful  screaming.  Sheila  dropped  her  spear 
and  leapt  to  the  door.  On  it,  outside,  Miss  Blake  beat 
and  screamed,  "Open,  for  God's  sake!" 

Sheila  shouted  in  as  dreadful  a  key.  "On  your  side 
-  the  bolt!  Miss  Blake  —  the  bolt!" 

Fingers  clawed  at  the  bolt,  but  it  would  not  slip. 
Through  all  the  horrible  sounds  the  woman  made, 
Sheila  could  hear  the  snarling  and  leaping  and  snap 
ping  of  the  dogs.  She  dashed  to  the  small,  tight  win- 


268  THE  STARS 

dow,  broke  a  pane  with  her  fist,  and  thrust  out  he* 
arm.  She  meant  to  reach  the  bolt,  but  what  she  saw 
took  the  warm  life  out  of  her.  Miss  Blake  had  gone 
down  under  the  whirling,  slobbering  pack.  The 
screaming  had  stopped.  In  that  one  awful  look  the 
poor  child  saw  that  no  human  help  could  save.  She 
dropped  down  on  the  floor  and  lay  there  moaning, 
her  hands  pressed  over  her  ears  .  .  . 

So  she  lay,  shuddering  and  gasping,  the  great  part 
of  the  night.  At  last  the  intense  cold  drove  her  to  the 
fire.  She  heaped  up  the  logs  high  and  hung  close  above 
them.  Her  very  heart  was  cold.  Liquid  ice  moved 
sluggishly  along  her  veins.  The  morning  brought  no 
comfort  or  courage  to  her,  only  a  freshening  of  hor 
ror  and  of  fear.  The  dogs  had  gone,  and  all  the  winter 
world  lay  still  about  the  house. 

She  was  shaken  by  a  regular  pulse  of  nervous  sob 
bing.  But,  driven  by  a  sort  of  restlessness,  she  made 
herself  coffee  and  forced  some  food  down  her  con 
tracted  throat.  Then  she  put  on  her  coat,  took  down 
Miss  Blake's  six-shooter  and  cartridge  belt,  and  saw, 
with  a  slight  relaxing  of  the  cramp  about  her  heart, 
that  there  were  four  shots  in  the  chamber.  Four  shots 
and  eight  dogs,  but  —  at  least  —  she  could  save  her 
self  from  that  death!  She  strapped  the  gun  round  her 
slim  hips,  filled  her  pockets  with  supplies  —  a  box  of 
dried  raisins,  some  hard  bread,  a  cake  of  chocolate, 
some  matches  —  pulled  her  cap  down  over  her  ears, 
and  took  her  snowshoes  from  the  wall.  With  closed 


THE  PACK  269 

eyes  she  put  her  arm  out  through  the  broken  pane, 
and,  after  a  short  struggle,  slipped  the  rusty  bolt. 
Then  she  went  over  to  the  door  and,  leaning  against 
it,  prayed.  Even  with  the  mysterious  strength  she 
drew  from  that  sense  of  kinship  with  a  superhuman 
Power,  it  was  a  long  time  before  she  could  force  her 
self  to  open.  At  last,  with  a  big  gasp,  she  flung  the 
door  wide,  skirted  the  house,  her  hands  against  the 
logs,  her  eyes  shut,  ran  across  the  open  space,  scram 
bled  up  the  drift,  tied  on  her  snowshoes,  and  fled 
away  under  the  snow-laden  pines.  There  moved  in  all 
the  wilderness  that  day  no  more  hunted  and  fearful 
a  thing. 

The  fresh  snow  sunk  a  little  under  her  webs,  but 
she  was  a  featherweight  of  girlhood,  and  made 
quicker  and  easier  progress  than  would  have  been 
possible  to  any  one  else  but  a  child.  And  her  fear  gave 
her  both  strength  and  speed.  Sometimes  she  looked 
back  over  her  shoulder;  always  she  strained  her  ears 
for  the  pad  of  following  feet.  It  was  a  day  of  rainbows 
and  of  diamond  spray,  where  the  sun  struck  the 
shaken  snow  sifted  from  overweighted  branches. 
Sheila  remembered  well  enough  the  route  to  the  post- 
office.  It  meant  miles  of  weary  plodding,  but  she 
thought  that  she  could  do  it  before  night.  If  not,  she 
would  travel  by  starlight  and  the  wan  reflection  of 
the  snow.  There  was  no  darkness  in  these  clear,  keen 
nights.  She  would  not  tell  herself  what  gave  her 
strength  such  impetus.  She  thought  resolutely  of  the 


270  THE  STARS 

post-office,  of  the  old,  friendly  man,  of  his  stove,  of 
his  chairs  and  his  picture  of  the  President,  of  his  gun 
laid  across  two  nails  against  his  kitchen  wall  —  all 
this,  not  more  than  eighteen  miles  away!  And  she 
thought  of  Hilliard,  too;  of  his  young  strength  and 
the  bold  young  glitter  of-  his  eyes. 

She  stopped  for  a  minute  at  noon  to  drink  some 
water  from  Hidden  Creek  and  to  eat  a  bite  or  so  of 
bread.  She  was  pulling  on  her  gloves  again  when  a 
distant  baying  first  reached  her  ears.  She  turned 
faint,  seemed  to  stand  in  a  mist;  then,  with  her  teeth 
set  defiantly,  she  started  again,  faster  and  steadier, 
her  body  bent  forward,  her  head  turned  back.  Before 
her  now  lay  a  great  stretch  of  undulating,  unbroken 
white.  At  its  farther  edge  the  line  of  blue-black  pines 
began  again.  She  strained  her  steps  to  reach  this  shel 
ter.  The  baying  had  been  very  faint  and  far  away  — 
it  might  have  been  sounded  for  some  other  hunting. 
She  would  make  the  woods,  take  off  her  webs,  climb 
up  into  a  tree  and,  perhaps,  attracted  by  those  four 
shots  —  no,  three,  she  must  save  one  —  some  trap 
per,  some  unimaginable  wanderer  in  the  winter  for 
est,  would  come  to  her  and  rescue  her  before  the  end. 
So  her  mind  twisted  itself  with  hope.  But,  an  hour 
later,  with  the  pines  not  very  far  away,  the  baying 
rose  so  close  behind  that  it  stopped  her  heart.  Twenty 
minutes  had  passed  when  above  a  rise  of  ground  she 
saw  the  shaggy,  trotting  black-gray  body  of  Brenda, 
the  leader  of  the  pack.  She  was  running  slowly,  her 


THE  PACK  271 

nose  close  to  the  snow,  casting  a  little  right  and  left 
over  the  tracks.  Sheila  counted  eight  —  Berg,  then, 
had  joined  them.  She  thought  that  she  could  dis 
tinguish  him  in  the  rear.  It  was  now  late  afternoon, 
and  the  sun  slanted  driving  back  the  shadows  of  the 
nearing  trees,  of  Sheila,  of  the  dogs.  It  all  seemed 
fantastic  —  the  weird  beauty  of  the  scene,  the  weird 
horror  of  it.  Sheila  reckoned  the  distance  before  her, 
reckoned  the  speed  of  the  dogs.  She  knew  now  that 
there  was  no  hope.  Ahead  of  her  rose  a  sharp,  sudden 
slope  —  she  could  never  make  it.  There  came  to  her 
quite  suddenly,  like  a  gift,  a  complete  release  from 
fear.  She  stopped  and  wheeled.  It  seemed  that  the 
brutes  had  not  yet  seen  her.  They  were  nose  down  at 
the  scent.  One  by  one  they  vanished  in  a  little  dip 
of  ground,  one  by  one  they  reappeared,  two  yards 
away.  Sheila  pulled  out  her  gun,  deliberately  aimed 
and  fired. 

A  spurt  of  snow  showed  that  she  had  aimed  short. 
But  the  loud,  sudden  report  made  Brenda  swerve.  All 
the  dogs  stopped  and  slunk  together  circling,  their 
haunches  lowered.  Wreck  squatted,  threw  up  his 
head,  and  howled.  Sheila  spoke  to  them,  clear  and 
loud,  her  young  voice  ringing  out  into  that  loneliness. 

"You  Berg!  Good  dog!  Come  here." 

One  of  the  shaggy  animals  moved  toward  her  tim 
idly,  looking  back,  pausing.  Brenda  snarled. 

"Berg,  come  here,  boy!" 

Sheila  patted  her  knee.  At  this  the  big  dog  whined, 


272  THE  STARS 

cringed,  and  began  to  swarm  up  the  slope  toward  her 
on  his  belly.  His  eyes  shifted,  the  struggle  of  his  mind 
was  pitifully  visible  —  pack-law,  pack-power,  the 
wolf-heart  and  the  wolf -belly,  and  against  them  that 
queer  hunger  for  the  love  and  the  touch  of  man. 
Sheila  could  not  tell  if  it  were  hunger  or  loyalty  that 
was  creeping  up  to  her  in  the  body  of  the  beast.  She 
kept  her  gun  leveled  on  him.  When  he  had  come  to 
within  two  feet  of  her,  he  paused.  Then,  from  behind 
him  rose  the  starved  baying  of  his  brothers.  Sheila 
looked  up.  They  were  bounding  toward  her,  all  wolf 
these  —  but  more  dangerous  after  their  taste  of  hu 
man  blood  than  wolves  —  to  the  bristling  hair  along 
their  backs  and  the  bared  fangs.  Again  she  fired. 
This  time  she  struck  Wreck's  paw.  He  lifted  it  and 
howled.  She  fired  again.  Brenda  snapped  sideways  at 
her  shoulder,  but  was  not  checked.  There  was  one 
shot  left.  Sheila  knew  how  it  must  be  used.  Quickly 
she  turned  the  muzzle  up  toward  her  own  head. 

Then  behind  her  came  a  sharp,  loud  explosion. 
Brenda  leapt  high  into  the  air  and  fell  at  Sheila's  feet. 
At  that  first  rifle-shot,  Berg  fled  with  shadow  swift 
ness  through  the  trees.  For  the  rest,  it  was  as  though 
a  magic  wall  had  stopped  them,  as  though,  at  a  cer 
tain  point,  they  fell  upon  death.  Crack,  crack,  crack 
—  one  after  another,  they  came  up,  leapt,  and 
dropped,  choking  and  bleeding  on  the  snow.  At  the 
end  Sheila  turned  blindly.  A  yard  behind  her  and 
slightly  above  her  there  under  the  pines  stood  Hil- 


THE  PACK  273 

Hard,  very  pale,  his  gun  tucked  under  his  arm,  the 
smoking  muzzle  lowered.  Weakly  she  felt  her  way 
up  toward  him,  groping  with  her  hands. 

He  slid  down  noiselessly  on  his  long  skis  and  she 
stood  clinging  to  his  arm,  looking  up  dumbly  into  his 
strained  face. 

"I  heard  your  shots,"  he  said  breathlessly.  "You're 
within  a  hundred  yards  of  my  house  .  .  .  For  months 
I  Ve  been  trying  to  make  up  my  mind  to  come  to  you. 
God  forgive  me,  Sheila,  for  not  coming  before!" 

Swinging  his  gun  on  its  strap  across  his  shoulder, 
he  lifted  her  in  his  arms,  and,  like  a  child,  she  was 
carried  through  the  silence  of  the  woods,  all  barred 
with  blood-red  glimmers  from  a  setting  sun. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD  AGAIN 

HILLIARD  carried  Sheila  into  the  house  that  he  had 
built  for  her  and  laid  her  down  in  that  big  bedroom 
that  "got  the  morning  sun."  For  a  while  it  seemed  to 
him  that  she  would  never  open  her  eyes  again,  and 
when  she  did  regain  consciousness  she  was  so  pros 
trate  with  her  long  fear  and  the  shock  of  Miss  Blake's 
death  that  she  lay  there  too  weak  to  smile  or  speak, 
too  weak  almost  to  breathe.  Hilliard  turned  nurse,  a 
puzzled,  anxious  nurse.  He  would  sit  up  in  his  living- 
room  half  the  night,  and  when  sleep  overpowered  his 
anxiety  he  would  fall  prone  on  the  elk-hide  rug  before 
his  fire. 

At  last  Sheila  pulled  herself  up  and  crept  about  the 
house.  She  spent  a  day  in  the  big  log  chair  before  Hil- 
liard's  hearth,  looking  very  wan,  shrinking  from 
speech,  her  soft  mouth  gray  and  drawn. 

"Are  n't  you  ever  going  to  smile  for  me  again?"  he 
asked  her,  after  a  long  half-hour  during  which  he  had 
stood  as  still  as  stone,  his  arm  along  the  pine  mantel 
shelf,  looking  at  her  from  the  shelter  of  a  propping 
hand. 

She  lifted  her  face  to  him  and  made  a  pitiful  effort 
enough.  But  it  brought  tears.  They  ran  down  her 


THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD  AGAIN      275 

cheeks,  and  she  leaned  back  and  closed  her  lids,  but 
the  crystal  drops  forced  themselves  out,  clung  to  her 
lashes,  and  fell  down  on  her  clenched  hands.  Hilliard 
went  over  to  her  and  took  the  small,  cold  hands  in 
both  of  his. 

"Tell  me  about  what  happened,  Sheila,"  he  begged 
her.  "It  will  help." 

Word  by  difficult  word,  he  still  holding  fast  to  her 
hands,  she  sobbed  and  gasped  out  her  story,  to  which 
he  listened  with  a  whitening  face.  He  gripped  her 
hands  tighter,  then,  toward  the  end,  he  rose  with  a 
sharp  oath,  lit  his  cigarette,  paced  to  and  fro. 

"God!"  he  said  at  the  last.  "And  she  told  you  I 
had  gone  from  the  country!  The  devil!  I  can't  help 
saying  it,  Sheila  —  she  tortured  you.  She  deserved 
what  God  sent  her." 

"Oh,  no!"  -  Sheila  rocked  to  and  fro  —  "no  one 
could  deserve  such  dreadful  terror  and  pain.  She  - 
she  was  n't  sane.  I  was  —  foolish  to  trust  her  ...  I 
am  so  foolish  —  I  think  I  must  be  too  young  or  too 
stupid  for  —  for  all  this.  I  thought  the  world  would 
be  a  much  safer  place."  She  looked  up  again,  and 
speech  had  given  her  tormented  nerves  relief,  for  her 
eyes  were  much  more  like  her  own,  clear  and  young 
again.  "Mr.  Hilliard  —  what  shall  I  do  with  my  life, 
I  wonder?  I've  lost  my  faith  and  trustingness.  I'm 
horribly  afraid." 

He  stood  before  her  and  spoke  in  a  gentle  and 
reasonable  tone.  "I'll  tell  you  the  answer  to  that, 


276  THE  STARS 

ma'am,"  he  said.  "I've  thought  that  all  out  while 
I've  been  taking  care  of  you." 

She  waited  anxiously  with  parted  lips. 

"Well,  ma'am,  you  see  —  it's  like  this.  I'm  plumb 
ashamed  of  myself  through  and  through  for  the  way 
I  have  acted  toward  you.  I  was  a  fool  to  listen  to  that 
dern  lunatic.  She  told  me  —  lies  about  you." 

"Miss  Blake  did?" 

"Yes,  ma'am."  His  face  crimsoned  under  her  look. 

Sheila  closed  her  eyes  and  frowned.  A  faint  pink 
stole  up  into  her  face.  She  lifted  her  lids  again  and  he 
saw  the  brightness  of  anger.  "And,  of  course,  you 
took  her  lies  for  the  truth?" 

"Oh,  damn!  Now  you're  mad  with  me  and  you 
won't  listen  to  my  plan!" 

He  was  so  childish  in  this  outbreak  that  Sheila  was 
moved  to  dim  amusement.  "I'm  too  beaten  to  be 
angry  at  anything,"  she  said.  "Just  tell  me  your 
plan." 

"No,"  he  said  sullenly.  "I'll  wait.  I'm  scared  to 
tell  you  now!" 

She  did  not  urge  him,  and  it  was  not  till  the  next 
morning  that  he  spoke  about  his  plan.  She  had  got 
out  to  her  chair  again  and  had  made  a  pretense  of 
eating  an  ill-cooked  mess  of  canned  stuff  which  he 
had  brought  to  her  on  a  tray.  It  was  after  he  had 
taken  this  breakfast  away  that  he  broke  out  as  though 
his  excitement  had  forced  a  lock. 

"I'm  going  down  to  Rusty  to-day,"  he  said.  His 


THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD  AGAIN      277 

eyes  were  shining.  He  looked  at  her  boldly  enough 
now. 

"And  take  me?"  Sheila  half-started  up.  "And  take 
me?" 

"No,  ma'am.  You're  to  stay  here  safe  and  snug." 
She  dropped  back.  "I'll  leave  everything  handy  for 
you.  There's  enough  food  here  for  an  army  and 
enough  fuel  .  .  .  You're  as  safe  here  as  though  you 
were  at  the  foot  of  God's  throne.  Don't  look  like  that, 
girl.  I  can't  take  you.  You're  not  strong  enough  to 
make  the  journey  in  this  cold,  even  on  a  sled.  And 
we  can't"  —  his  voice  sunk  and  his  eyes  fell  -  "we 
can't  go  on  like  this,  I  reckon." 

"N-no."  Sheila's  forehead  was  puckered.  Her  fin 
gers  trembled  on  the  arms  of  her  chair.  "N-no  ..." 
Then,  with  a  sort  of  quaver,  she  added,  "Oh,  why 
can't  we  go  on  like  this?  —  till  the  snow  goes  and  I 
can  travel  with  you!" 

"Because,"  he  said  roughly,  "we  can't.  You  take 
my  word  for  it."  After  a  pause  he  went  on  in  his  for 
mer  decisive  tone.  "I'll  be  back  in  two  or  three  days. 
I'll  fetch  the  parson." 

Sheila  sat  up  straight. 

His  eyes  held  hers.  "Yes,  ma'am.  The  parson.  I'm 
going  to  marry  you,  Sheila." 

She  repeated  this  like  a  lesson.  "You  are  going  to 
marry  me  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  ma'am.  You'll  have  three  days  to  think  it 
over.  If  you  don't  want  to  marry  me  when  the  parson 


278  THE  STARS 

comes,  why,  you  can  just  go  back  to  Rusty  with  him." 
He  laughed  a  little,  came  over  to  her,  put  a  hand  on 
each  arm  of  her  chair,  and  bent  down.  She  shrank 
back  before  him.  His  eyes  had  the  glitter  of  a  hawk's, 
and  his  red  and  beautiful  lips  were  soft  and  eager  and 

-  again  —  a  little  cruel. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  won't  kiss  you  till  I  come  back 

-  not  even  for  good-bye.  Then  you  '11  know  how  I 
feel  about  you.  You  '11  know  that  I  believe  that  you  're 
a  good  girl  and,  Sheila"  —  here  he  seemed  to  melt 
and  falter  before  her;  he  slipped  down  with  one  of  his 
graceful  Latin  movements  and  hid  his  forehead  on 
her  knees  —  "Sheila,  my  darling  —  that  I  know  you 
are  fit  —  oh,  so  much  more  than  fit  —  to  be  the 
mother  of  my  children  ..." 

In  half  an  hour,  during  which  they  were  both  pro 
foundly  silent,  he  came  to  her  again.  He  was  ready 
for  his  journey.  She  was  sitting  far  back  in  her  chair, 
her  slim  legs  stretched  out.  She  raised  inscrutable 
eyes  wide  to  his. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said  softly.  "It's  hard  to  leave 
you.  Good-bye." 

She  said  good-bye  even  more  softly  with  no  change 
in  her  look.  And  he  went  out,  looking  at  her  over  his 
shoulder  till  the  last  second.  She  heard  the  voice  of 
his  skis,  hissing  across  the  hard  crust  of  the  snow. 
She  sat  there  stiff  and  still  till  the  great,  wordless 
silence  settled  down  again.  Then  she  started  up  from 
her  chair,  ran  across  to  the  window,  and  saw  that  he 


THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD  AGAIN      279 

was  indeed  gone.  She  came  storming  back  and  threw 
herself  down  upon  the  hide.  She  cried  like  a  deserted 
child. 

"Oh,  Cosme,  I'm  afraid  to  be  alone!  I'm  afraid! 
Why  did  I  let  you  go?  Come  back!  Oh,  please  come 
back!" 

It  was  late  that  night  when  Hilliard  reached  Rusty, 
traveling  with  all  his  young  strength  across  the  easy, 
polished  surface  of  the  world.  He  was  dog-tired.  He 
went  first  to  the  saloon.  Then  to  the  post-office.  To 
his  astonishment  he  found  a  letter.  It  was  postmarked 
New  York  and  he  recognized  the  small,  cramped 
hand  of  the  family  lawyer.  He  took  the  letter  up  to 
his  bedroom  in  the  Lander  Hotel  and  sat  on  the  bed, 
turning  the  square  envelope  about  in  his  hands.  At 
last,  he  opened  it. 

MY  DEAR  COSME  [the  lawyer  had  written  ...  he  had 
known  Hilliard  as  a  child],  It  is  my  strong  hope  that  this 
letter  will  reach  you  promptly  and  safely  at  the  address 
you  sent  me.  Your  grandfather's  death,  on  the  fifteenth 
instant,  leaves  you,  as  you  are  no  doubt  aware,  heir  to  his 
fortune,  reckoned  at  about  thirty  millions.  If  you  will  wire 
on  receipt  of  this  and  follow  wire  in  person  as  soon  as  con 
venient,  it  will  greatly  facilitate  arrangements.  It  is  ex 
tremely  important  that  you  should  come  at  once.  Every 
day  makes  things  more  complicated  ...  in  the  manage 
ment  of  the  estate.  I  remain,  with  congratulations, 

Sincerely  your  friend,  .  .  . 

The  young  man  sat  there,  dazed. 

He  had  always  known  about  those  millions;  the 


280  THE  STARS 

expectation  of  them  had  always  vaguely  dazzled  his 
imagination,  tampered  more  than  he  was  aware  with 
the  sincerity  of  his  feelings,  with  the  reality  of  his 
life;  but  now  the  shower  of  gold  had  fallen  all  about 
him  and  his  fancy  stretched  its  eyes  to  take  in  the 
immediate  glitter. 

Why,  thought  Hilliard,  this  turns  life  upside  down 
...  I  can  begin  to  live  ...  I  can  go  East.  He  saw 
that  the  world  and  its  gifts  were  as  truly  his  as 
though  he  were  a  fairy  prince.  A  sort  of  confusion  of 
highly  colored  pictures  danced  through  his  quick  and 
ignorant  brain.  The  blood  pounded  in  his  ears.  He 
got  up  and  prowled  about  the  little  room.  It  was 
oppressively  small.  He  felt  caged.  The  widest  prairie 
would  have  given  him  scant  elbow-room.  He  was 
planning  his  trip  to  the  East  when  the  thought  of 
Sheila  first  struck  him  like  a  cold  wave  ...  or  rather 
it  was  as  if  the  wave  of  his  selfish  excitement  had 
crashed  against  the  wave  of  his  desire  for  her.  All 
was  foam  and  confusion  in  his  spirit.  He  was  quite 
incapable  of  self-sacrifice  —  a  virtue  in  which  his  free 
life  and  his  temperament  had  given  him  little  train 
ing.  It  was  simply  a  war  of  impulses.  His  instinct  was 
to  give  up  nothing  —  to  keep  hold  of  every  gift.  He 
wanted,  as  he  had  never  in  his  life  wanted  anything 
before,  to  have  his  fling.  He  wanted  his  birthright  of 
experience.  He  had  cut  himself  off  from  all  the  gentle 
ways  of  his  inheritance  and  lived  like  a  very  Ishmael 
through  no  fault  of  his  own.  Now,  it  seemed  to  him 


THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD  AGAIN      281 

that  before  he  settled  down  to  the  soberness  of 
marriage,  he  must  take  one  hasty,  heady,  compen 
sating  draft  of  life,  of  the  sort  of  life  he  might  have 
had.  He  would  go  East,  go  at  once;  he  would  fling 
himself  into  a  tumultuous  bath  of  pleasure,  and 
then  he  would  come  back  to  Sheila  and  lay  a  great 
gift  of  gold  at  her  feet.  He  thought  over  his  plans, 
reconstructing  them.  He  got  pen  and  ink  and  wrote 
a  letter  to  Sheila.  He  wrote  badly  —  a  schoolboy's 
inexpressive  letter.  But  he  told  his  story  and  his 
astounding  news  and  drew  a  vivid  enough  picture 
of  the  havoc  it  had  wrought  in  his  simplicity.  He 
used  a  lover's  language,  but  his  letter  was  as  cold  and 
lumpish  as  a  golden  ingot.  And  yet  the  writer  was 
not  cold.  He  was  throbbing  and  distraught,  con 
fused  and  overthrown,  a  boy  of  fourteen  beside  him 
self  at  the  prospect  of  a  holiday  ...  It  was  a  stolen 
holiday,  to  be  sure,  a  sort  of  truancy  from  manliness, 
but  none  the  less  intoxicating  for  that.  Cosme's  Latin 
nature  was  on  top;  Saxon  loyalty  and  conscience 
overthrown.  He  was  an  egoist  to  his  finger-tips  that 
night.  He  did  not  sleep  a  wink,  did  not  even  try,  but 
lay  on  his  back  across  the  bed,  hands  locked  over 
his  hair  while  "visions  of  sugar  plums  danced  through 
his  head."  In  the  morning  he  went  down  and  made 
his  arrangements  for  Sheila,  a  little  less  complete, 
perhaps,  than  he  had  intended,  for  he  met  a  worthy 
citizen  of  Rusty  starting  up  the  country  with  a  sled 
to  visit  his  traps  and  to  him  he  gave  the  letter  and 


282  THE  STARS 

confided  his  perplexities.  It  was  a  hasty  interview, 
for  the  stage  was  about  to  start. 

"My  wife  will  sure  take  your  girl  and  welcome; 
don't  even  have  to  ask  her,"  the  kind-eyed  old  fellow 
assured  Hilliard.  "We'll  be  glad  to  have  her  for  a 
couple  of  months.  She'll  like  the  kids.  It'll  be  home 
for  her.  Yes,  sir"  —  he  patted  the  excited  traveler  on 
the  shoulder  —  "y°u  pile  into  the  stage  and  don't 
you  worry  any.  I'll  be  up  at  your  place  before  night 
and  bring  the  lady  down  on  my  sled.  Yes,  sir.  Pile  in 
and  don't  you  worry  any." 

Cosme  wrung  his  hand,  avoided  his  clear  eye,  and 
climbed  up  beside  the  driver  on  the  stage.  He  did  not 
look  after  the  trapper.  He  stared  ahead  beyond  the 
horses  to  the  high  white  hill  against  a  low  and  heavy 
sky  of  clouds. 

"There's  a  big  snowstorm  a  comin'  down,"  growled 
the  driver.  "Lucky  if  we  make  The  Hill  to-day.  A 
reg'lar  oldtimer  it's  agoin'  to  be.  And  cold  —  ugh!" 

Cosme  hardly  heard  this  speech.  The  gray  world 
was  a  golden  ball  for  him  to  spin  at  his  will.  Midas 
had  touched  the  snow.  The  sleigh  started  with  a  jerk 
and  a  jingle.  In  a  moment  it  was  running  lightly  with 
a  crisp,  cutting  noise.  Cosme's  thoughts  outran  it, 
leaping  toward  their  gaudy  goal ...  a  journey  out 
to  life  and  a  journey  back  to  love  —  no  wonder  his 
golden  eyes  shone  and  his  cheeks  flushed. 

"You  look  almighty  glad  to  be  going  out  of  here," 
the  driver  made  comment. 


THE  GOOD  OLD  WORLD  AGAIN      283 

Billiard  laughed  an  explosive  and  excited  laugh. 
"No  almighty  gladder  than  I  shall  be  to  be  coming 
back  again,"  he  prophesied. 

But  to  prophesy  is  a  mistake.  One  should  leave  the 
future  humbly  on  the  knees  of  the  gods.  That  night, 
when  Hilliard  was  lying  wakeful  in  his  berth  listen 
ing  to  the  click  of  rails,  the  old  trapper  lay  under  the 
driving  snow.  But  he  was  not  wakeful.  He  slept  with 
no  visions  of  gold  or  love,  a  frozen  and  untroubled 
sleep.  He  had  caught  his  foot  in  a  trap,  and  the  bliz 
zard  had  found  him  there  and  had  taken  mercy  on 
his  pain.  They  did  not  find  his  body  until  spring,  and 
then  Cosme's  letter  to  Sheila  lay  wet  and  withered  in 
his  pocket. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LONELINESS 

THE  first  misery  of  loneliness  takes  the  form  of  a 
restless  inability  to  concentrate.  It  is  as  if  the  victim 
wanted  to  escape  from  himself.  After  Cosme's  de 
parture  Sheila  prowled  about  the  silent  cabin,  began 
this  bit  of  work  and  that,  dropped  it,  found  herself 
staring  vaguely,  listening,  waiting,  and  nervously 
shook  herself  into  activity  again.  She  tried  to  whistle, 
but  it  seemed  like  somebody  else's  music  and  fright 
ened  her  ears.  At  dusk  she  fastened  sacking  across 
the  uncurtained  windows,  lighted  both  Cosme's 
lamps,  bringing  the  second  from  her  bedroom,  and 
heaped  up  a  dancing  and  jubilant  fire  upon  the 
hearth.  In  the  midst  of  this  illumination  she  sat, 
very  stiff  and  still,  in  the  angular  elk-hide-covered 
chair,  and  knitted  her  hands  together  on  her  knee. 
Her  mind  was  now  intensely  active;  memories, 
thoughts,  plans,  fancies  racing  fast  and  furious  like 
screen  pictures  across  her  brain.  And  they  seemed  to 
describe  themselves  in  loud  whispers.  She  had  diffi 
culty  in  keeping  these  voices  from  taking  possession 
of  her  tongue. 

"I  don't  want  to  talk  to  myself,"  she  murmured, 
and  glanced  over  her  shoulder. 

A  man  has  need  of  his  fellows  for  a  shield.  Man  is 


LONELINESS  285 

man's  shelter  from  all  the  storm  of  unanswered  ques 
tions.  Where  am  I?  What  am  I?  Why  am  I?  —  No 
reply.  No  reassuring  double  to  take  away  the  ghost- 
sense  of  self,  that  unseen,  intangible  aura  of  person 
ality  in  which  each  of  us  moves  as  in  a  cloud.  In  the 
souls  of  some  there  is  an  ever-present  Man  God  who 
will  forever  save  them  from  this  supreme  experience. 
Sheila's  religion,  vague,  conventional,  childish,  fal 
tered  away  from  her  soul.  Except  for  her  fire,  which 
had  a  sort  of  sympathy  of  life  and  warmth  and  mo 
tion,  she  was  unutterably  alone.  And  she  was  be 
ginning  to  suffer  from  the  second  misery  of  solitude 
-  a  sense  of  being  many  personalities  instead  of  one. 
She  seemed  to  be  entertaining  a  little  crowd  of  con 
fused  and  argumentative  Sheilas.  To  silence  them  she 
fixed  her  mind  on  her  immediate  problem. 

She  tried  to  draw  Hilliard  close  to  her  heart.  She 
had  an  honest  hunger  for  his  warm  and  graceful 
beauty,  for  his  young  strength,  but  this  natural  hun 
ger  continually  shocked  her.  She  tried  not  to  remem 
ber  the  smoothness  of  his  neck  as  her  half-conscious 
hands  had  slipped  away  from  it  that  afternoon  when 
he  raised  her  from  the  snow.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her 
desire  for  him  was  centered  somewhere  in  her  body. 
Her  mind  remained  cool,  detached,  critical,  even  hos 
tile.  She  disliked  the  manner  of  his  wooing  —  not 
that  there  should  have  been  any  insult  to  the  pride 
of  a  nameless  little  adventurer,  Hudson's  barmaid, 
a  waif,  in  being  told  that  she  wa^  a  "good  girl"  and 


286  THE  STARS 

fit  to  be  the  mother  of  this  young  man's  children. 
But  Sheila  knew  instinctively  that  these  things  could 
not  be  said,  could  not  even  be  thought  of  by  such  a 
man  as  Marcus  Arundel.  She  remembered  his  words 
about  her  mother  .  .  .  Sheila  wanted  with  a  great 
longing  to  be  loved  like  that,  to  be  so  spoken  of,  so 
exquisitely  entreated.  A  phrase  in  Hudson's  letter 
came  to  her  mind,  "I  handled  you  in  my  heart  like 
a  flower".  .  .  Unconsciously  she  pressed  her  hand 
against  her  lips,  remembered  the  taste  of  whiskey 
and  of  blood.  If  only  it  had  been  Dickie's  lips  that 
had  first  touched  her  own.  Blinding  tears  fell.  The 
memory  of  Dickie's  comfort,  of  Dickie's  tremulous 
restraint,  had  a  strange  poignancy  .  .  .  Why  was  he 
so  different  from  all  the  rest?  So  much  more  like  her 
father?  What  was  there  in  this  pale  little  hotel  clerk 
who  drank  too  much  that  lifted  him  out  and  up  into 
a  sort  of  radiance?  Her  memory  of  Dickie  was  always 
white  —  the  whiteness  of  that  moonlight  of  their 
first,  of  that  dawn  of  their  last,  meeting.  He  had  had 
no  chance  in  his  short,  unhappy,  and  restricted  life  - 
not  half  the  chance  that  young  Hilliard's  life  had 
given  him  —  to  learn  such  delicate  appreciations, 
such  tenderness,  such  reserves.  Where  had  he  got  his 
delightful,  gentle  whimsicalities,  that  sweet,  imper 
sonal  detachment  that  refused  to  yield  to  stupid 
angers  and  disgusts?  He  was  like  —  in  Dickie's  own 
fashion  she  fumbled  for  a  simile.  But  there  was  no 
word.  She  thought  of  a  star,  that  morning  star  he 


LONELINESS  287 

had  drawn  her  over  to  look  at  from  the  window  of  her 
sitting-room.  Perhaps  the  artist  in  Sylvester  had  ex 
pressed  itself  in  this  son  he  so  despised;  perhaps 
Dickie  was,  after  all,  Hudson's  great  work  .  .  .  All 
sorts  of  meanings  and  symbols  pelted  Sheila's  brain 
as  she  sat  there,  exciting  and  fevering  her  nerves. 

In  three  days  Hilliard  would  be  coming  back.  His 
warm  youth  would  again  fill  the  house,  pour  itself 
over  her  heart.  After  the  silence,  his  voice  would  be 
terribly  persuasive,  after  the  loneliness,  his  eager, 
golden  eyes  would  be  terribly  compelling!  He  was 
going  to  "fetch  the  parson"  .  .  .  Sheila  actually 
wrung  her  hands.  Only  three  days  for  this  decision 
and,  without  a  decision,  that  awful,  helpless  wander 
ing,  those  dangers,  those  rash  confidences  of  hers.  "O 
God,  where  are  you?  Why  don't  you  help  me  now?" 
That  was  Sheila's  prayer.  It  gave  her  little  comfort, 
but  she  did  fall  asleep  from  the  mental  exhaustion 
to  which  it  brought  at  least  the  relief  of  expression. 

When  she  woke,  she  found  the  world  a  horrible 
confusion  of  storm.  It  could  hardly  be  called  morn 
ing  —  a  heavy,  flying  darkness  of  drift,  a  wind  filled 
with  icy  edges  that  stung  the  face  and  cut  the  eyes, 
a  wind  with  the  voice  of  a  driven  saw.  The  little  cabin 
was  caught  in  the  whirling  heart  of  a  snow  spout 
twenty  feet  high.  The  firs  bent  and  groaned.  There 
is  a  storm-fear,  one  of  the  inherited  instinctive  fears. 
Sheila's  little  face  looked  out  of  the  whipped  win 
dows  with  a  pinched  and  shrinking  stare.  She  went 


288  THE  STARS 

from  window  to  hearth,  looking  and  listening,  all 
day.  A  drift  was  blown  in  under  the  door  and  hardly 
melted  for  all  the  blazing  fire.  That  night  she  could  n't 
go  to  bed.  She  wrapped  herself  in  blankets  and  curled 
herself  up  in  the  chair,  nodding  and  starting  in  the 
circle  of  the  firelight. 

For  three  terrible  days  the  world  was  lost  in  snow. 
Before  the  end  of  that  time  Sheila  was  talking  to  her 
self  and  glad  of  the  sound  of  her  own  hurried  little 
voice.  Then,  like  God,  came  a  beautiful  stillness  and 
the  sun.  She  opened  the  door  on  the  fourth  morn 
ing  and  saw,  above  the  fresh,  soft,  ascending  dazzle 
of  the  drift,  a  sky  that  laughed  in  azure,  the  green, 
snow-laden  firs,  a  white  and  purple  peak.  She  spread 
out  her  hands  to  feel  the  sun  and  found  it  warm.  She 
held  it  like  a  friendly  hand.  She  forced  herself  that 
day  to  shovel,  to  sweep,  even  to  eat.  Perhaps  Cosme 
would  be  back  before  night.  He  and  the  parson 
would  have  waited  for  the  storm  to  be  over  before 
they  made  their  start.  She  believed  in  her  own  ex 
cuses  for  five  uneasy  days,  and  then  she  believed  in 
the  worst  of  all  her  fears.  She  had  a  hundred  to  choose 
from  —  Cosme's  desertion,  Cosme's  death  .  .  .  One 
day  she  spent  walking  to  and  fro  with  her  nails  driven 
into  her  palms. 

Late  that  night  the  white  world  dipped  into  the 
still  influence  of  a  full  white  moon.  Before  Hilliard's 
cabin  the  great  firs  caught  the  light  with  a  deepening 


LONELINESS  289 

flush  of  green,  their  shadows  fell  in  even  lavender 
tracery  delicate  and  soft  across  the  snow,  across  the 
drifted  roof.  The  smoke  from  the  half -buried  chim 
ney  turned  to  a  moving  silver  plume  across  the  blue 
of  the  winter  night  sky  —  intense  and  warm  as 
though  it  reflected  an  August  lake. 

The  door  of  the  cabin  opened  with  a  sharp  thrust 
and  Sheila  stepped  out.  She  walked  quickly  through 
the  firs  and  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  open  range-land, 
beyond  and  below  which  began  the  dark  ridge  of  the 
primeval  woods.  She  stood  perfectly  still  and  lifted 
her  face  to  the  sky.  For  all  the  blaze  of  the  moon  the 
greater  stars  danced  in  radiance.  Their  constellations 
sloped  nobly  across  her  dazzled  vision.  She  had  come 
very  close  to  madness,  and  now  her  brain  was  dumb 
and  dark  as  though  it  had  been  shut  into  a  blank- 
walled  cell.  She  stood  with  her  hands  hanging.  She 
had  no  will  nor  wish  to  pray.  The  knowledge  had 
come  to  her  that  if  she  went  out  and  looked  this 
winter  Pan  in  the  face,  her  brain  would  snap,  either 
to  life  or  death.  It  would  burst  its  prison  .  .  .  She 
stared,  wide-eyed,  dry-eyed,  through  the  immense 
cold  height  of  air  up  at  the  stars. 

All  at  once  a  door  flew  open  in  her  soul  and  she 
knew  God  ...  no  visible  presence  and  yet  an  envel 
oping  reality,  the  God  of  the  savage  earth,  of  the 
immense  sky,  of  the  stars,  the  God  unsullied  and  un- 
tempted  by  man's  worship,  no  God  that  she  had  ever 
known,  had  ever  dreamed  of,  had  ever  prayed  to 


290  THE  STARS 

before.  She  did  not  pray  to  Him  now.  She  let  her  soul 
stand  open  till  it  was  filled  as  were  the  stars  and  the 
earth  with  light  .  .  . 

The  next  day  Sheila  found  her  voice  and  sang  at 
her  work.  She  gave  herself  an  overwhelming  task  of 
cleaning  and  scrubbing.  She  was  on  her  knees  like  a 
charwoman,  sniffing  the  strong  reek  of  suds,  when 
there  came  a  knocking  at  her  door.  She  leapt  up  with 
pounding  heart.  But  the  knocking  was  more  like  a 
scraping  and  it  was  followed  by  a  low  whine.  For  a 
second  Sheila's  head  filled  with  a  fog  of  terror  and 
then  came  a  homely  little  begging  bark,  just  the 
throaty,  snuffling  sob  of  a  homeless  puppy.  Sheila 
took  Cosme's  six-shooter,  saw  that  it  was  loaded,  and, 
standing  in  the  shelter  of  the  door,  she  slowly  opened 
it.  A  few  moments  later  the  gun  lay  a  yard  away  on 
the  soapy,  steaming  floor  and  Berg  was  held  tight  in 
her  arms.  His  ecstasy  of  greeting  was  no  greater  than 
her  ecstasy  of  welcome.  She  cried  and  laughed  and 
hugged  and  kissed  him.  That  night,  after  a  mighty 
supper,  he  slept  on  her  bed  across  her  feet.  Two  or 
three  times  she  woke  and  reached  her  hand  down  to 
caress  his  rough  thick  coat.  The  warmth  of  his  body 
mounted  from  her  feet  to  her  heart.  She  thought  that 
he  had  been  sent  to  her  by  that  new  God.  As  for  Berg, 
he  had  found  his  God  again,  the  taming  touch  of  a 
small  human  hand. 

It  was  in  May,  one  morning  in  May  —  she  had 


LONELINESS  291 

long  ago  lost  count  of  her  days  —  when  Sheila 
stepped  across  her  sill  and  saw  the  ground.  Just  a 
patch  it  was,  no  bigger  than  a  tablecloth,  but  it  made 
her  catch  her  breath.  She  knelt  down  and  ran  her 
hands  across  it,  sifted  some  gravel  through  her  fingers. 
How  strange  and  various  and  colorful  were  the  atoms 
of  stone,  rare  as  jewels  to  her  eyes  so  long  used  to 
the  white  and  violet  monotony  of  snow.  Beyond  the 
gravel,  at  the  very  edge  of  the  drift,  a  slender  crescent 
of  green  startled  her  eyes  and  —  yes  —  there  were  a 
dozen  valorous  little  golden  flowers,  as  flat  and  round 
as  fairy  doubloons. 

Attracted  by  her  cry,  Berg  came  out,  threw  up  his 
nose,  and  snuffed.  Spring  spoke  loudly  to  his  nostrils. 
There  was  sap,  rabbits  were  about  —  all  of  it  no  news 
to  him.  Sheila  sat  down  on  the  sill  and  hugged  him 
close.  The  sun  was  warm  on  his  back,  on  her  hands, 
on  the  boards  beneath  her. 

"May  —  May  —  May  -  "  she  whispered,  and  up 
in  the  firs  quite  suddenly,  as  though  he  had  thrown 
reserve  to  the  four  winds,  a  bluebird  repeated  her 
"May  —  May  —  May"  on  three  notes,  high,  low, 
and  high  again,  a  little  musical  stumble  of  delight. 
It  had  begun  again  —  that  whistling-away  of  winter 
fear  and  winter  hopelessness. 

The  birds  sang  and  built  and  the  May  flies  crept  up 
through  the  snow  and  spun  silver  in  the  air  for  a  brief 
dazzle  of  life. 

The  sun  was  so  warm  that  Berg  and  Sheila  dozed 


292  THE  STARS 

on  their  doorsill.  They  did  little  else,  these  days,  but 
dream  and  doze  and  wait. 

The  snow  melted  from  underneath,  sinking  with 
audible  groans  of  collapse  and  running  off  across  the 
frozen  ground  to  swell  Hidden  Creek.  The  river 
roared  into  a  yellow  flood,  tripped  its  trees,  sliced  at 
its  banks.  Sheila  snowshoed  down  twice  a  day  to  look 
at  it.  It  was  a  sufficient  barrier,  she  thought,  between 
her  and  the  world.  And  now,  she  had  attained  to  the 
savage  joy  of  loneliness.  She  dreaded  change.  Above 
all  she  dreaded  Hilliard.  That  warmth  of  his  beauty 
had  faded  utterly  from  her  senses.  It  seemed  as  faint 
as  a  fresco  on  a  long-buried  wall.  Intrusion  must 
bring  anxiety  and  pain,  it  might  bring  fear.  She  had 
had  long  communion  with  her  stars  and  the  God 
whose  name  they  signaled.  She,  with  her  dog  friend 
under  her  hand,  had  come  to  something  very  like 
content. 

The  roar  of  Hidden  Creek  swelled  and  swelled. 
After  the  snow  had  shrunk  into  patches  here  and 
there  under  the  pines  and  against  hilly  slopes,  there 
was  still  the  melting  of  the  mountain  glaciers. 

"Nobody  can  possibly  cross!"  Sheila  exulted.  "A 
man  would  have  to  risk  his  life."  And  it  was  in  one  of 
those  very  moments  of  her  savage  self-congratulation 
when  there  came  the  sound  of  nearing  hoofs. 

She  was  sitting  on  her  threshold,  watching  the  slow 
darkness,  a  sifting-down  of  ashes  through  the  still  air. 
I*  was  so  very  still  that  the  little  new  moon  hung 


LONELINESS  293 

there  above  the  firs  like  faint  music.  Silver  and  gray, 
and  silver  and  green,  and  violet  —  Sheila  named  the 
delicacies  of  dappled  light.  The  stars  had  begun  to 
shake  little  shivers  of  radiance  through  the  firs.  They 
were  softer  than  the  winter  stars  —  their  keenness 
melted  by  the  warm  blue  of  the  air.  Sheila  sat  and 
held  her  knees  and  smiled.  The  distant,  increasing 
tumult  of  the  river,  so  part  of  the  silence  that  it 
seemed  no  sound  at  all,  lulled  her  —  Then  —  above 
it  —  the  beat  of  horse's  hoofs. 

At  first  she  just  sat  empty  of  sensation  except  for 
the  shock  of  those  faint  thuds  of  sound.  Then  her  heart 
began  to  beat  to  bursting;  with  dread,  with  a  suffo 
cation  of  suspense.  She  got  up,  quiet  as  a  thief.  The 
horse  stopped.  There  came  a  step,  rapid  and  eager. 
She  fled  like  a  furtive  shadow  into  the  house,  fell  on 
her  knees  there  by  the  hearth,  and  hid  her  face  against 
the  big  hide-covered  chair.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  cold 
tears.  Her  finger-tips  were  ice.  She  was  shaking  — 
shuddering,  rather  —  from  head  to  foot.  The  steps 
had  come  close,  had  struck  the  threshold.  There  they 
stopped.  After  a  pause,  which  her  pulses  filled  with 
shaken  rhythm,  her  name  was  spoken--  So  long  it 
had  been  since  she  had  heard  it  that  it  fell  on  her  ear 
like  a  foreign  speech. 

"Sheila!  Sheila!" 

She  lifted  her  head  sharply.  It  was  not  Hilliard's 
voice. 

"Sheila — "  There  was  such  an  agony  of  fear  in 


294  THE  STARS 

the  softly  spoken  syllables,  there  was  such  a  weight  of 
dread  on  the  breath  of  the  speaker,  that,  for  very  pity, 
Sheila  forgot  herself.  She  got  up  from  the  floor  and 
moved  dazedly  to  meet  the  figure  on  the  threshold. 
It  was  dimly  outlined  against  the  violet  evening  light. 
Sheila  came  up  quite  close  and  put  her  hands  on 
the  tense,  hanging  arms.  They  caught  her.  Then  she 
sobbed  and  laughed  aloud,  calling  out  in  her  aston 
ishment  again  and  again,  softly,  incredulously  — 
"You,  Dickie?  Oh,  Dickie,  Dickie,  it's  —  you?" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SHEILA  AND  THE  STARS 

HILLIARD'S  first  messenger  had  been  hindered  by 
death.  Several  times  it  seemed  that  his  second  mes 
senger  would  suffer  the  same  grim  prevention.  But 
this  second  messenger  was  young  and  set  like  steel 
to  his  purpose.  He  left  the  railroad  at  Millings,  hired 
a  horse,  crossed  the  great  plain  above  the  town 
and  braved  the  Pass,  dangerous  with  overbalanced 
weights  of  melting  snow.  There,  on  the  lonely  Hill, 
he  had  his  first  encounter  with  that  Arch-Hinderer. 
A  snow-slide  caught  him  and  he  left  his  horse  buried, 
struggling  out  himself  from  the  cold  smother  like  a 
maimed  insect  to  lie  for  hours  by  the  road  till  breath 
and  life  came  back  to  him.  He  got  himself  on  foot  to 
the  nearest  ranch,  and  there  he  hired  a  fresh  horse 
and  reached  Rusty,  at  the  end  of  the  third  day. 

Rusty  was  overshadowed  by  a  tragedy.  The  body 
of  the  trapper,  Hilliard's  first  messenger,  had  been 
found  under  the  melting  snow,  a  few  days  before,  and 
to  the  white-faced  young  stranger  was  given  that 
stained  and  withered  letter  in  which  Hilliard  had 
excused  and  explained  his  desertion. 

Nothing,  at  Rusty,  had  been  heard  of  Sheila.  No 
one  knew  even  that  she  had  ever  left  Miss  Blake's 
ranch  —  the  history  of  such  lonely  places  is  a  sealed 


296  THE  STARS 

book  from  snowfall  until  spring.  Their  tragedies  are 
as  dumb  as  the  tragedies  of  animal  life.  No  one  had 
ever  connected  Sheila's  name  with  Milliard's.  No  one 
knew  of  his  plans  for  her.  The  trapper  had  set  off 
without  delay,  not  even  going  back  to  his  house,  some 
little  distance  outside  of  Rusty,  to  tell  his  wife  that 
he  would  be  bringing  home  a  lodger  with  him.  There 
was,  to  be  sure,  at  the  office  a  small  bundle  of  let 
ters  all  in  the  same  hand  addressed  to  Miss  Arun- 
del.  They  had  to  wait,  perforce,  till  the  snow-bound 
country  was  released. 

"It's  not  likely  even  now,"  sly  and  twinkling  Lan 
der  of  the  hotel  told  Dickie,  "that  you  can  make 
it  to  Miss  Blake's  place.  No,  sir,  nor  to  Hilliard's 
neither.  Hidden  Creek's  up.  She's  sure  some  flood 
this  time  of  the  year.  It's  as  much  as  your  life's  good 
for,  stranger." 

But  Dickie  merely  smiled  and  got  for  himself  a 
horse  that  was  "good  in  deep  water."  And  he  rode 
away  from  Rusty  without  looking  back. 

He  rode  along  a  lush,  wet  land  of  roaring  streams, 
and,  on  the  bank  of  Hidden  Creek,  there  was  a  roar 
ing  that  drowned  even  the  beating  of  his  heart.  The 
flood  straddled  across  his  path  like  Apollyon. 

A  dozen  times  the  horse  refused  the  ford  —  at  last 
with  a  desperate  toss  of  his  head  he  made  a  plunge 
for  it.  Almost  at  once  he  was  swept  from  the  cobbled 
bed.  He  swam  sturdily,  but  the  current  whirled  him 
down  like  a  straw  —  Dickie  slipped  from  the  saddle 


SHEILA  AND  THE  STARS  297 

on  the  upper  side  so  that  the  water  pressed  him  close 
to  the  horse,  and,  even  when  they  both  went  under, 
he  held  to  the  animal  with  hands  like  iron.  This  saved 
his  life.  Five  blind,  black,  gasping  minutes  later,  the 
horse  pulled  him  up  on  the  farther  bank  and  they 
stood  trembling  together,  dazed  by  life  and  the 
warmth  of  the  air. 

It  was  growing  dark.  The  heavy  shadow  of  the 
mountain  fell  across  them  and  across  the  swollen  yel 
low  river  they  had  just  escaped.  There  began  to  be 
a  dappling  light  —  the  faint  shining  of  that  slim 
young  moon.  She  was  just  a  silver  curl  there  above 
the  edge  of  the  hill.  In  an  hour  she  would  set.  Her 
brightness  was  as  shy  and  subtle  as  the  brightness  of 
a  smile.  The  messenger  pulled  his  trembling  body  to 
the  wet  saddle  and,  looking  about  for  landmarks  that 
had  been  described  to  him,  he  found  the  faint  trail  to 
Hilliard's  ranch.  Presently  he  made  out  the  low  build 
ing  under  its  firs.  He  dropped  down,  freed  the  good 
swimmer  and  turned  him  loose,  then  moved  rapidly 
across  the  little  clearing.  It  was  all  so  still.  Hid 
den  Creek  alone  made  a  threatening  tumult.  Dickie 
stopped  before  he  came  to  the  door.  He  stood  with 
his  hands  clenched  at  his  sides  and  his  chin  lifted.  He 
seemed  to  be  speaking  to  the  sky.  Then  he  stumbled 
to  the  door  and  called, 

"Sheila—" 

She  seemed  to  rise  up  from  the  floor  and  stand 
before  him  and  put  her  hands  on  his  arms. 


298  THE  STARS 

A  sort  of  insanity  of  joy,  of  childish  excitement 
came  upon  Sheila  when  she  had  recognized  her  visi 
tor.  She  flitted  about  the  room,  she  laughed,  she 
talked  half- wildly  —  it  had  been  such  a  long  silence 
—  in  broken,  ejaculatory  sentences.  It  was  Dickie's 
dumbness,  as  he  leaned  against  the  door,  looking  at 
her,  that  sobered  her  at  last.  She  came  close  to  him 
again  and  saw  that  he  was  shivering  and  that  streams 
of  water  were  running  from  his  clothes  to  the  floor. 

"Why,  Dickie!  How  wet  you  are!"  —  Again  she 
put  her  hands  on  his  arms  —  he  was  indeed  drenched. 
She  looked  up  into  his  face.  It  was  gray  and  drawn  in 
the  uncertain  light. 

"That  dreadful  river!  How  did  you  cross  it!" 

Dickie  smiled. 

"It  would  have  taken  more  than  a  river  to  stop 
me,"  he  said  in  his  old,  half-demure,  half-ironical 
fashion.  And  that  was  all  Sheila  ever  heard  of  that 
brief  epic  of  his  journey.  He  drew  away  from  her  now 
and  went  over  to  the  fire. 

"Dickie"  —  she  followed  him  —  "tell  me  how  you 
came  here.  How  you  knew  where  I  was.  Wait  —  I  '11 
get  you  some  of  Cosme's  clothes  —  and  a  cup  of  tea." 

This  time,  exhausted  as  he  was,  Dickie  did  not  fail 
to  stand  up  to  take  the  cup  she  brought  him.  He 
shook  his  head  at  the  dry  clothes.  He  did  n't  want 
Hilliard's  things,  thank  you;  he  was  drying  out 
nicely  by  the  fire.  He  was  n't  a  bit  cold.  He  sat  and 
drank  the  tea,  leaning  forward,  his  elbows  on  his 


SHEILA  AND  THE  STARS  299 

knees.  He  was,  after  all,  just  the  same,  she  decided  — 
only  more  so.  His  Dickie-ness  had  increased  a  hun 
dredfold.  There  was  still  that  quaint  look  of  having 
come  in  from  the  fairy  doings  of  a  midsummer  night. 
Only,  now  that  his  color  had  come  back  and  the  light 
of  her  lamp  shone  on  him,  he  had  a  firmer  and  more 
vital  look.  His  sickly  pallor  had  gone,  and  the  blue 
marks  under  his  eyes  —  the  eyes  were  fuller,  deeper, 
more  brilliant.  He  was  steadier,  firmer.  He  had  defi 
nitely  shed  the  pitifulness  of  his  childhood.  And  Sheila 
did  not  remember  that  his  mouth  had  so  sweet  a 
firm  line  from  sensitive  end  to  end  of  the  lips. 

Her  impatience  was  driving  her  heart  faster  at 
every  beat. 

"You  must,  please,  tell  me  everything  now, 
Dickie,"  she  pleaded,  sitting  on  the  arm  of  Hilliard's 
second  chair.  Her  cheeks  burned;  her  hair,  grown  to 
an  awkward  length,  had  come  loose  from  a  ribbon  and 
fallen  about  her  face  and  shoulders.  She  had  made 
herself  a  frock  of  orange-colored  cotton  stuff  —  some 
thing  that  Hilliard  had  bought  for  curtains.  It  was 
a  startling  color  enough,  but  it  could  not  dim  her 
gypsy  beauty  of  wild  dark  hair  and  browned  skin 
with  which  the  misty  and  spiritual  eyes  and  the 
slightly  straightened  and  saddened  lips  made  exqui 
site  disharmony. 

Dickie  looked  up  at  her  a  minute.  He  put  down  his 
cup  and  got  to  his  feet.  He  went  to  stand  by  the  shelf, 
half-turned  from  her. 


300  THE  STARS 

"Tell  me,  at  least,"  she  begged  in  a  cracked  kej 
of  suspense,  "do  you  know  anything  about  —  Bil 
liard?" 

At  that  Dickie  was  vividly  a  victim  of  remorse. 

"Oh  —  Sheila  —  damn!  I  am  a  beast.  Of  course  — - 
he's  all  right.  Only,  you  see,  he's  been  hurt  and  is  in 
the  hospital.  That's  why  I  came." 

"You?  —  Hilliard?  —  Dickie.  I  can't  really  un 
derstand."  She  pushed  back  her  hair  with  the  same 
gesture  she  had  used  in  -the  studio  when  Sylvester 
Hudson's  offer  of  "a  job"  had  set  her  brain  whirling. 

"No,  of  course.  You  would  n't."  Dickie  spoke 
slowly  again,  looking  at  the  rug.  "I  went  East  — " 

"But  — Hilliard?" 

He  looked  up  at  her  and  flashed  a  queer,  pained 
sort  of  smile.  "I  am  coming  to  him,  Sheila.  I've  got 
to  tell  you  some  about  myself  before  I  get  around  to 
him  or  else  you  would  n't  savvy  - 

"Oh."  She  could  n't  meet  the  look  that  went  with 
the  queer  smile,  for  it  was  even  queerer  and  more 
pained,  and  was,  somehow,  too  old  a  look  for  Dickie. 
So  she  said,  "Oh,"  again,  childishly,  and  wraited, 
staring  at  her  fingers. 

"I  went  to  New  York  because  I  thought  I'd  find 
you  there,  Sheila.  Pap's  hotel  was  on  fire." 

"Did  you  really  burn  it  down,  Dickie?" 

He  started  violently.  "7  burned  it  down?  Good 
Lord!  No.  What  made  you  think  such  a  thing?" 

"Never  mind.  Your  father  thought  so." 


SHEILA  AND  THE  STARS  301 

Dickie's  face  flushed.  "I  suppose  he  would."  He 
thought  it  over,  then  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I 
did  n't.  I  don't  know  how  it  started  ...  I  went  to 
New  York  and  to  that  place  you  used  to  live  in  — 
the  garret.  I  had  the  address  from  the  man  who  took 
Pap  there." 

"The  studio?  Our  studio?--  You  there,  Dickie?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  I  lived  there.  I  thought,  at  first,  you 
might  come  .  .  .  Well"  -Dickie  hurried  as  though 
he  wanted  to  pass  quickly  over  this  necessary  history 
of  his  own  experience  —  "I  got  a  job  at  a  hotel."  He 
smiled  faintly.  "I  was  a  waiter.  One  night  I  went  to 
look  at  a  fire.  It  was  a  big  fire.  I  was  trying  to  think 
out  what  it  was  like  —  you  know  the  way  I  always 
did.  It  used  to  drive  Pap  loco  —  I  must  have  been 
talking  to  myself.  Anyway,  there  was  a  fellow  stand 
ing  near  me  with  a  notebook  and  a  pencil  and  he 
spoke  up  suddenly  —  kind  of  sharp,  and  said :  '  Say 
that  again,  will  you?' --He  was  a  newspaper  re 
porter,  Sheila  .  .  .  That's  how  I  got  into  the  job.  But 
I'm  only  telling  you  because  — " 

Sheila  hit  the  rung  of  her  chair  with  an  impatient 
foot.  "Oh,  Dickie!  How  silly  you  are!  As  if  I  were  n't 
dying  to  hear  all  about  it.  How  did  you  get  'into  the 
job'?  What  job?" 

"Reporting,"  said  Dickie.  He  was  troubled  by  this 
urgency  of  hers.  He  began  to  stammer  a  little.  "Of 
course,  the  —  the  fellow  helped  me  a  lot.  He  got  me 
on  the  staff.  He  went  round  with  me.  He  —  he  took 


302  THE  STARS 

down  what  I  said  and  later  he  —  he  kind  of  edited 
my  copy  before  I  handed  it  in.  He  —  he  was  al 
mighty  good  to  me.  And  I  —  I  worked  awfully  hard. 
Like  Hell.  Night  classes  when  I  was  n't  on  night 
duty,  and  books.  Then,  Sheila,  I  began  to  get  kind 
of  crazy  over  words."  His  eyes  kindled.  And  his  face. 
He  straightened.  He  forgot  himself,  whatever  it  was 
that  weighed  upon  him.  "Are  n't  they  wonderful? 
They  're  like  polished  stones  —  each  one  a  different 
shape  and  color  and  feel.  You  fit  'em  this  way  and 
that  and  turn  'em  and  —  all  at  once,  they  shine  and 
sing.  God !  I  never  knowed  what  was  the  matter  with 
me  till  I  began  to  work  with  words  —  and  that  is 
work.  Sheila!  Lord!  How  you  hate  them,  and  love 
them,  and  curse  them,  and  worship  them.  I  used  to 
think  I  wanted  whiskey"  He  laughed  scorn  at  that 
old  desire;  then  came  to  self -consciousness  again  and 
was  shamefaced  -  "I  guess  you  think  I  am  plumb 
out  of  my  head,"  he  apologized.  "You  see,  it  was 
because  I  was  a  —  a  reporter,  Sheila,  that  I  hap 
pened  to  be  there  when  Hilliard  was  hurt.  I  was 
coming  home  from  the  night  courts.  It  was  down 
town.  At  a  street-corner  there  was  a  crowd.  Somebody 
told  me;  'Young  Hilliard's  car  ran  into  a  milk  cart; 
turned  turtle.  He's  hurt.'  Well,  of  course,  I  knew  it'd 
be  a  good  story  —  all  that  about  Hilliard  and  his 
millions  and  his  coming  from  the  West  to  get  his  in 
heritance  —  it  had  just  come  out  a  couple  of  months 
before  .  .  ." 


SHEILA  AND  THE  STARS  303 

"His  millions?"  repeated  Sheila.  She  slipped  off 
the  arm  of  her  chair  without  turning  her  wide  look 
from  Dickie  and  sat  down  with  an  air  of  deliberate 
sobriety.  "His  inheritance?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes,  ma'am.  That's  what  took  him  East.  He  had 
news  at  Rusty.  He  wrote  you  a  letter  and  sent  it  by 
a  man  who  was  to  fetch  you  to  Rusty.  You  were  to 
stay  there  with  his  wife  till  Hilliard  would  be  coming 
back  for  you.  But,  Sheila,  the  man  was  caught  in  a 
trap  and  buried  by  a  blizzard.  They  found  him  only 
about  a  week  ago  —  with  Hilliard's  letter  in  his 
pocket."  Dickie  fumbled  in  his  own  steaming  coat. 
"Here  it  is.  I've  got  it." 

"Don't  give  it  to  me  yet,"  she  said.  "Go  on." 

"Well,"  Dickie  turned  the  shriveled  and  stained 
paper  lightly  in  restless  fingers.  "That  morning  in 
New  York  I  got  up  close  to  the  car  and  had  my  note 
book  out.  Hilliard  was  waiting  for  the  ambulance. 
His  ribs  were  smashed  and  his  arm  broken.  He  was 
conscious.  He  was  laughing  and  talking  and  smoking 
cigarettes.  I  asked  him  some  questions  and  he  took  a 
notion  to  question  me.  'You're  from  the  West,'  he 
said;  and  when  I  told  him  'Millings,'  he  kind  of 
gasped  and  sat  up.  That  turned  him  faint.  But  when 
they  were  carrying  him  off,  he  got  a-holt  of  my  hand 
and  whispered,  '  Come  see  me  at  the  hospital/  I  was 
willing  enough  —  I  went.  And  they  took  me  to  him  — 
private  room.  And  a  nice-looking  nurse.  And  flowers. 
He  has  lots  of  friends  in  New  York  —  Hilliard,  you 


304  THE  STARS 

bet  you  -  '  It  was  irony  again  and  Sheila  stirred 
nervously.  That  changed  his  tone.  He  moved 
abruptly  and  came  and  sat  down  near  her,  locking 
his  hands  and  bending  his  head  to  study  them  in  the 
old  way.  "He  found  out  who  I  was  and  he  told  me 
about  you,  Sheila,  and,  because  he  was  too  much 
hurt  to  travel  or  even  to  write,  he  asked  me  to  go  out 
and  carry  a  message  for  him.  Nothing  would  have 
kept  me  from  going,  anyway,"  Dickie  added  quaintly. 
"When  I  learned  what  had  been  happening  and  how 
you  were  left  and  no  letters  coming  from  Rusty  to 
answer  his  —  well,  sir,  I  could  hardly  sit  still  to  hear 
about  all  that,  Sheila.  But,  anyway  -  Dickie 
moved  his  hands.  They  sought  the  arms  of  his  chair 
and  the  fingers  tightened.  He  looked  past  Sheila.  "He 
told  me  then  how  it  was  with  you  and  him.  That  you 
were  planning  to  be  married.  And  I  promised  to  find 
you  and  tell  you  what  he  said." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

Dickie  spoke  carefully,  using  his  strange  gift.  With 
every  word  his  face  grew  a  trifle  whiter,  but  that  had 
no  effect  upon  his  eloquence.  He  painted  a  vivid  and 
touching  picture  of  the  shattered  and  wistful  youth. 
He  repeated  the  shaken  words  of  remorse  and  love. 
"I  want  her  to  come  East  and  marry  me.  I  love  her. 
Tell  her  I  love  her.  Tell  her  I  can  give  her  everything 
she  wants  in  all  the  world.  Tell  her  to  come  —  "  And 
far  more  skillfully  than  ever  Hilliard  himself  could 
have  done,  Dickie  pleaded  the  intoxication  of  that 


SHEILA  AND  THE  STARS  305 

sudden  shower  of  gold,  the  bewildering  change  in  the 
young  waif's  life,  the  necessity  he  was  under  to  go 
and  see  and  touch  the  miracle.  There  was  a  long 
silence  after  Dickie  had  delivered  himself  of  the  bur 
den  of  his  promise.  The  fire  leapt  and  crackled  on 
Hilliard's  forsaken  hearth.  It  threw  shadows  and 
gleams  across  Dickie's  thin,  exhausted  face  and 
Sheila's  inscrutably  thoughtful  one. 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

"Give  me  the  letters  now,  Dickie." 

He  handed  her  the  bundle  that  had  accumulated 
in  Rusty  and  the  little  withered  one  taken  from  the 
body  of  the  trapper.  Sheila  took  them  and  held  them 
on  her  knee.  She  pressed  both  her  hands  against  her 
eyes;  then,  leaning  toward  the  fire,  she  read  the  let 
ters,  beginning  with  that  one  that  had  spent  so  many 
months  under  the  dumb  snow. 

Berg,  who  had  investigated  Dickie,  leaned  against 
her  knee  while  she  read,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  She 
read  and  laid  the  pile  by  on  the  table  behind  her.  She 
sat  for  a  long  while,  elbows  on  the  arms  of  her  chair, 
fingers  laced  beneath  her  chin.  She  seemed  to  be 
looking  at  the  fire,  but  she  was  watching  Dickie 
through  her  eyelashes.  There  was  no  ease  in  his  atti 
tude.  He  had  his  arms  folded,  his  hands  gripped  the 
damp  sleeves  of  his  coat.  When  she  spoke,  he  jumped 
as  though  she  had  fired  a  gun. 

"It  is  not  true,  Dickie,  that  things  were  —  were 
that  way  between  Cosme  and  me  ...  We  had  not 


306  THE  STARS 

settled  to  be  married  ..."  She  paused  and  saw  that 
he  forced  himself  to  sit  quiet.  "Do  you  really  think," 
she  said,  "that  the  man  that  wrote  those  letters,  loves 
me?"  Dickie  was  silent.  He  would  not  meet  her  look. 
"So  you  promised  Hilliard  that  you  would  take  me 
back  to  marry  him?"  There  was  an  edge  to  her  voice. 

Dickie's  face  burned  cruelly.  "No,"  he  said  with 
shortness.  "I  was  going  to  take  you  to  the  train  and 
then  come  back  here.  I  am  going  to  take  up  this  claim 
of  Hilliard's  —  he 's  through  with  it.  He  likes  the 
East.  You  see,  Sheila,  he's  got  the  whole  world  to 
play  with.  It's  quite  true."  He  said  this  gravely,  in 
sistently.  "He  can  give  you  everything  — " 

"And  you?" 

Dickie  stared  at  her  with  parted  lips.  He  seemed 
afraid  to  breathe  lest  he  startle  away  some  hesitant 
hope.  "I?"  he  whispered. 

"I  mean  —  you  don't  like  the  East?  —  You  will 
give  up  your  work?" 

"Oh  — "  He  dropped  back.  The  hope  had  flown 
and  he  was  able  to  breathe  again,  though  breathing 
seemed  to  hurt.  "Yes,  ma'am.  I'll  give  up  newspaper 
reporting.  I  don't  like  New  York." 

"But,  Dickie  —  your  —  words?  I'd  like  to  see 
something  you've  written." 

Dickie's  hand  went  to  an  inner  pocket. 

"I  wanted  you  to  see  this,  Sheila."  His  eyes  were 
lowered  to  hide  a  flaming  pride.  "My  poems" 

Sheila  felt  a  shock  of  dread.  Dickie's  poems !  She 


SHEILA  AND  THE  STARS  307 

was  afraid  to  read  them.  She  could  not  help  but  think 
of  his  life  at  Millings,  of  that  sordid  hotel  lobby  .  .  . 
Newspaper  stories  —  yes  —  that  was  imaginable. 
But  —  poetry?  Sheila  had  been  brought  up  on  verse. 
There  was  hardly  a  beautiful  line  that  had  not  sung 
itself  into  the  fabric  of  her  brain. 

"Poems?"  she  repeated,  just  a  trifle  blankly;  then, 
seeing  the  hurt  in  his  face,  about  the  sensitive  and 
delicate  lips,  she  put  out  a  quick,  penitent  hand. 
"Let  me  see  them  —  at  once!" 

He  handed  a  few  folded  papers  to  her.  They  were 
damp.  He  put  his  face  down  to  his  hands  and  looked 
at  the  floor  as  though  he  could  not  bear  to  watch  her 
face.  Sheila  saw  that  he  was  shaking.  It  meant  so 
much  to  him,  then  — ?  She  unfolded  the  papers 
shrinkingly  and  read.  As  she  read,  the  blood  rushed 
to  her  cheeks  for  shame.  She  ought  never  to  have 
doubted  him.  Never  after  the  first  look  into  his  face, 
never  after  hearing  him  speak  of  the  "cold,  white 
flame"  of  an  unforgotten  winter  night.  Dickie's 
words,  so  greatly  loved  and  groped  for,  so  tirelessly 
pursued  in  the  face  of  his  world's  scorn  and  injury, 
came  to  him,  when  they  did  come,  on  wings.  In  the 
four  short  poems,  there  was  not  a  word  outside  of  his 
inner  experience,  and  yet  she  felt  that  those  words 
had  blown  through  him  mysteriously  on  a  wind  —  the 
wind  that  fans  such  flame  — 

"Oh,  little  song  you  sang  to  me 
A  hundred,  hundred  days  ago, 


308  THE  STARS 

Oh,  little  song  whose  melody 
Walks  in  my  heart  and  stumbles  so; 
I  cannot  bear  the  level  nights, 
And  all  the  days  are  over-long, 
And  all  the  hours  from  dark  to  dark 
Turn  to  a  little  song  —  " 

"Like  the  beat  of  the  falling  rain, 
Until  there  seems  no  roof  at  all, 
And  my  heart  is  washed  with  pain  — 

"Why  is  a  woman's  throat  a  bird, 
White  in  the  thicket  of  the  years?  —  " 

Sheila  suddenly  thrust  back  the  leaves  at  him,  hid 
her  face,  and  fell  to  crying  bitterly.  Dickie  let  fall  his 
poems;  he  hovered  over  her,  utterly  bewildered,  ut 
terly  distressed. 

"Sheila  —  h-how  could  they  possibly  hurt  you  so? 
It  was  your  song  —  your  song  —  Are  you  angry  with 
me  — ?  I  could  n't  help  it.  It  kept  singing  in  me  — 
It  —  it  hurt." 

She  thrust  his  hand  away. 

"Don't  be  kind  to  me!  Oh  —  I  am  ashamed!  I've 
treated  you  so!  And  —  and  snubbed  you.  And - 
and  condescended  to  you,  Dickie.  And  shamed  you. 
You  — !  And  you  can  write  such  lines  —  and  you  are 
great  —  you  will  be  very  great  —  a  poet !  Dickie,  why 
could  n't  I  see?  Father  would  have  seen.  Don't  touch 
me,  please!  I  can't  bear  it.  Oh,  my  dear,  you  must 
have  been  through  such  long,  long  misery  —  there  in 
Millings,  behind  that  desk  —  all  stifled  and  cramped 
and  shut  in.  And  when  I  came,  I  might  have  helped 


SHEILA  AND  THE  STARS  309 

you.  I  might   have  understood  .  .  .  But  I  hurt  you 
more." 

"Please  don't,  Sheila  —  it  is  n't  true.  Oh,  —  damn 
my  poems!" 

This  made  her  laugh  a  little,  and  she  got  up  and 
dried  her  eyes  and  sat  before  him  like  a  humbled  child. 
It  was  quite  terrible  for  Dickie.  His  face  was  drawn 
with  the  discomfort  of  it.  He  moved  about  the  room, 
miserable  and  restless. 

Sheila  recovered  herself  and  looked  up  at  him  with 
a  sort  of  wan  resolution. 

"And  you  will  stay  here  and  work  the  ranch  and 
write,  Dickie?" 

"Yes,  ma'am."  He  managed  a  smile.  "If  you  think 
a  fellow  can  push  a  plough  and  write  poetry  with  the 
same  hand." 

"It's  been  done  before.  And  —  and  you  will  send 
me  back  to  Hilliard  and  —  the  good  old  world?" 

Dickie's  artificial  smile  left  him.  He  stood,  white 
and  stiff,  looking  down  at  her.  He  tried  to  speak  and 
put  his  hand  to  his  throat. 

"And  I  must  leave  you  here,"  Sheila  went  on 
softly,  "with  my  stars?" 

She  got  up  and  walked  over  to  the  door  and  stood, 
half-turned  from  him,  her  fingers  playing  with  the 
latch. 

Dickie  found  part  of  his  voice. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Sheila,  about  your  stars?" 

"You   told   me,"   she  said  carefully,   "that  you 


310  THE  STARS 

would  go  and  work  and  then  come  back  —  But,  I 
suppose  — 

That  was  as  far  as  she  got.  Dickie  flung  himself 
across  the  room.  A  chair  crashed.  He  had  his  arms 
about  her.  He  was  shaking.  That  pale  and  tender 
light  was  in  his  face.  The  whiteness  of  a  full  moon, 
the  whiteness  of  a  dawn  seemed  to  fall  over  Sheila. 

"He  —  he  can  give  you  everything  -  "  Dickie  said 
shakily. 

"I've  been  waiting"  -she  said  —  "I  didn't 
know  it  until  lately.  But  I've  been  waiting,  so  long 
now,  for  —  for  — "  She  closed  her  eyes  and  lifted  her 
soft  sad  mouth.  It  was  no  longer  patient. 

That  night  Dickie  and  Berg  lay  together  on  the 
hide  before  the  fire,  wrapped  in  a  blanket.  Dickie  did 
not  sleep.  He  looked  through  the  uncurtained,  hori 
zontal  window,  at  the  stars. 

"You've  got  everything  else,  Hilliard,"  he  mut 
tered.  "You've  got  the  whole  world  to  play  with. 
After  all,  it  was  your  own  choice.  I  told  you  how  it 
was  with  me.  I  promised  I  'd  play  fair.  I  did  play  fair." 
He  sighed  deeply  and  turned  with  his  head  on  his  arm 
and  looked  toward  the  door  of  the  inner  room.  "It's 
like  sleeping  just  outside  the  gate  of  Heaven,  Berg," 
he  said.  "I  never  thought  I'd  get  as  close  as  that  — " 
He  listened  to  the  roar  of  Hidden  Creek.  "It  won't 
be  long,  old  fellow,  before  we  take  her  down  to  Rusty 
ind  bring  her  back."  Tears  stood  on  Dickie's  eye- 


SHEILA  AND  THE  STARS  311 

lashes.  "Then  we'll  walk  straight  into  Heaven."  He 
played  with  the  dog's  rough  mane.  "She'll  keep  on 
looking  at  the  stars,"  he  murmured.  "But  I'll  keep 
on  looking  at  her  —  Sheila" 

But  Sheila,  having  made  her  choice,  had  shut  her 
eyes  to  the  world  and  to  the  stars  and  slept  like  a 
good  and  happy  child. 


THE  END 


fltfte  fttoer-sibe 

CAMBRIDGE   .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


..SiS  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  036  279     8 


